


out of chaos

by oispaceman



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: M/M, Multi, Mutant Powers, Mutant Rights, X-Men AU (Kind of?? Not really. But close), a lot of violence but i wouldn't call it graphic?? i tagged it anyways, grantaire is the worst spy ever, lots of swearing bc of bahorel and feuilly i apologize on their behalf
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-06
Updated: 2015-08-10
Packaged: 2018-04-13 07:15:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 28,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4512840
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oispaceman/pseuds/oispaceman
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“This is a safe place,” Enjolras continued seamlessly, as if he hadn’t heard the insult. “Bahorel’s mutation causes a temporary tear in time and space, which is what you broke through to get here. We’re an undisclosed amount of kilometers underground, an undisclosed--”</p><p>“Undisclosed,” Grantaire repeated flatly.</p><p>“An <i>undisclosed</i> amount of years behind the present,” Enjolras continued, refusing to be deterred.</p><p>“Years… What?” Fuck. Fuck fuck <i>fuck</i>, this wasn't what he agreed to.</p><p>“Not to mention that we’re no where near Paris, or Javert, and everyone in this room is Mutant,” Enjolras finished. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing his new guest carefully. “What I’m trying to emphasize is that this is somewhere no one will hurt you.”</p><p>(Or, another Mutant AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

_“Out of chaos God made a world, and out of high passions comes a people.” -- Lord Byron_

#  PROLOGUE____________________________

Grantaire was thirteen when they first found him.

He hadn’t known then, what he could do. His mutation wasn’t physical, and it wasn’t mental, either. It was nothing but an addition -- or, rather, a subtraction. If he had never tripped over a sidewalk, if his mom had just let him stay home like he wanted, his life probably would have still been normal. He would have never known about his mutation, and no one else would, either.

But his mom had insisted he run errands with her -- _you could use the sun_ , she had said, her eyes kind but cold with the lack of understanding -- and Grantaire, never fully aware of his surroundings, had tripped up on the curb. His hands had gone out to break his fall -- he already knew the friction between his palms and the sidewalk would sting -- but someone had caught him by the wrists, effortlessly bringing him back up.

The world was still, it was just Grantaire and this man who had buzzing insect wings on his back, and his smile was kind, and his thousands of eyes were warm. The stranger looked like a cross between a human and a dragonfly and Grantaire thought he was the most beautiful thing he’d ever fucking seen. R opened his mouth to say _thank you_ , but a switch was flipped. Suddenly, the man who had saved him from scraped palms was on the ground and the scream that came from him didn’t sound _human_. It was pure agony condensed into a sound wave, piercing fear straight through Grantaire’s core.

His mother tried to pull him away in a panic, but Grantaire’s hands refused to let go of the man, and the man refused to get go of his wrists, and he just stared in horror as this stranger writhed without reason on the sidewalk, as people around them stopped to stare as well. There was something besides anxiety coursing through R, an outside emotion he didn’t know well enough to have a word for then, but he felt on _fire_. He felt alive, and more energized than he ever had been in his entire life, and a piece of him knew that this feeling was coming from the man on the ground.

Finally, their hands tore away from one another, but the man was still screaming, his hands shaking as he clawed at his face. To Grantaire’s horror, the beautiful, reflective eyes that had been so kind before started bubbling and bruising and some of them even slid off the man’s face entirely. The magnificent wings were limp, and they reminded R of the maple seeds that would fall off the tree in his father’s backyard during the spring, dry and cracking and breaking away.

The energy still pounded through his veins. He stepped forward to touch the man again. He wanted more. For a moment, it didn’t matter that the dying dragonfly was in pain, or that Grantaire had somehow been the cause of it -- all he wanted was to touch him again and feel the buzzing through his nervous system.

Buzzing like insect wings.

Someone pulled him back, breaking him from his hypnosis and yanking him away from the moaning stranger still sprawled on the ground. Through the clatter and roar of the quickly gathering crowd, Grantaire could hear the man repeating the same question under his jagged breath.

_What’s happened? What’s happened? What’s happened?_

His mother had thought the event had traumatized Grantaire, who sometimes woke up yelling from images of the dragonfly man dancing in his dreams, and so he was sent to see a therapist. His father was sure he’d get over it eventually, and Grantaire tried to agree with him, but his mother wouldn’t listen. So he went to a therapist and talked about that day his mother spilt milk all down his shirt as a man crossed with a dragonfly screamed bloody murder on the ground and all he wanted to do was sleep.

After just one session with Dr. Marneaux, the Suits were at his door.

They weren’t really called the Suits, but their real name was too long to remember and Grantaire never cared enough to try. They were handling the dragonfly Mutant’s case, and they wanted to run tests on Grantaire. His mother tried to decline, but she didn’t end up having much of a choice.

Their tests were strange, but Grantaire went through the motions without complaint. Once, he sat in a perfectly square room with his hand in a beaker of warm water for two hours by himself. He tried to tell the person with a clipboard that if they wanted him to pee himself, he had to be asleep first for the prank to really work. The person with the clipboard didn’t look amused. It was worth a shot anyways.

Another test involved him staring at a group of people who all seemed perfectly normal to him, but the examiner asked if he could point out Mutants within the crowd. Grantaire had shook his head, double checked when requested, and shook his head again.

Some tests involved needles, some didn’t. Some left him alone in a mirrored room, some his parents could sit by him with. They didn’t always, but sometimes they did. His life was as inconsistent as the tests, and he had no idea what his results were, but he wasn’t being hurt. He figured there were worse things.

Until the final test.

Another person with another clipboard brought him to a room. Honestly, it looked exactly like the type of interrogation rooms he saw on cop shows. In the center, at the table, sat a woman slumped forward, as if asleep. The long, dark green hair covering her face gave the rest of her skin an unsettling green glow. He was gently pushed forward and the door behind him was shut and he was alone in this room with this stranger and he suddenly knew he needed to _leave_.

A crackling sounded in the room, and a gruff voice he wasn’t familiar with boomed from the intercom. “Touch her.”

Grantaire looked at the mirror on the wall, knowing from enough cop shows that there were people standing on the other side, and furrowed his eyebrows in confusion. “What?” he asked, his eyes darting from the mirror to the unconscious woman.

He noticed the chains around her wrists and ankles then, securing her tightly to the table drilled into the floor.

“All you have to do is touch her. Try her hands first,” a voice instructed, calmer than the other.

Hesitantly, Grantaire stepped closer to the woman. He wanted to ask why she was chained, but he was scared. He realized then that was the reason for everything -- Grantaire was _scared_. In the back of his mind, he knew what all these tests could possible mean. It could mean that he was Mutant, and that really wasn’t something a person wanted to be, given the choice. So he went along with their ridiculous tests and let his skin be poked by needles and stuck his hand in a jar of water because he stupidly hoped that if he cooperated, then he wouldn’t be Mutant.

It was why he touched the girl.

As soon as his fingers interlaced with her limp ones, her head went back and she gasped, sucking in breaths like her lungs had been completely deflated. From that angle, Grantaire realized that it wasn’t her hair causing her skin to look minty, it was just… the color of her skin. Her eyes snapped open and stared emptily at the ceiling, seeing nothing and saying nothing, and then their hands began to tingle.

It was slow at first. Grantaire could see a darker green surge beneath her skin -- _veins_ , they were _veins_ , and they were _beautiful_ \-- and it looked like it was running towards his hand. Curiously, he ran a finger over her arm. It was like whatever was in place of this Mutant’s blood was attracted to Grantaire like a magnet, following wherever he touched. A smile pulled at the corners of his mouth. Despite not wanting to be Mutant, it didn’t mean he didn’t find them breathtaking. He wanted nothing more than to fill up an entire sketchbook of this woman’s veins, of her incredible design.

And then the screaming started.

Grantaire froze, and much like the incident with the dragonfly man, he couldn’t pull his hands away from her. Even the finger that was only brushing against her skin was suddenly anchored there, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t let _go_. He shook his head aggressively, his pleading eyes shooting to the mirror, silently asking for the voices on the other side to _help them_. He was hurting her, he knew he was hurting her, but he didn’t want to hurt her, and he couldn’t _stop_.

“Stay calm,” came the calm voice from before, but the gentleness of the cackling intercom was drowned by the green girl’s screams.

Grantaire could only watch helplessly as the color -- that beautiful mint -- faded from the woman’s skin. He could almost feel it enter himself, and for a terrifying moment, he didn’t know if he _couldn’t_ move or if he just didn’t _want_ to. Because it felt good. It was electrifying. He felt that sense of being alive that he hadn’t felt since the day on the street, and he didn’t want it to stop.

He did.

But he didn’t.

Finally, he was able to yank his hands away, and the woman slumped forward again, her cheek slapping against the table with a _thud_. Her skin was black now, like a normal person’s, and her dark green hair was charred at the ends. Her eyes were still open, and they were staring at Grantaire, but looking through him all the same. They were red, but he watched as they slowly faded to caramel, and then to brown.

“I just made flowers,” she had whispered, her voice just as hollow as he felt. And then they were both carted away.

There was no denying what he was after that -- Mutant. He had the ability to completely rewrite a Mutant’s DNA, that touching them started the painful process of stripping each of their cells from what made them different from everyone else. His mother had cried when they told her, and his father, who had never looked at him with anything but indifference before, allowed his eyes to flicker from shame to disdainment.

Grantaire just felt guilty. He hadn’t put the dragonfly or the girl with green skin into the morgue, but he knew he had killed them all the same.

“He can have a normal life,” the Suit promised, his face blank despite the weeping mother in front of him. “He can continue on with his schooling along with the other human children. Nothing about your current lives has to change because of this.”

“How?” his father asked in his stony voice.

“We have the power to make sure he simply doesn’t exist in the database, Mr. Grantaire.”

“Why would you do that?” his father pushed.

“We believe your son has a mutation like no other, one that will be infinitely useful to our organization. Our _powerful_ organization. Believe it or not, your son is someone we’ve been looking for for a very long time. All you have to do is agree to our terms,” the man looked at all three of them, his eyes resting on Grantaire last, “and I can promise you that your lives will not be disturbed by this unfortunate development.”

Grantaire’s parents looked at him then, and he swallowed. They were leaving this up to him. It was a nice gesture, but he didn’t exactly appreciate it. After a few beats of anxiety, he cleared his throat. “What are the terms?”

He’d heard it on a TV show once.

The Suit sighed and removed his glasses, taking out a handkerchief to rub his frames on. The pause made him feel like he’d said something wrong. Maybe he should have just agreed or disagreed instead of asking for more detail. Maybe he didn’t want to know.

Before he could say _nevermind_ , the man bent down so he was kneeling at Grantaire’s level, cold, almost black eyes boring into his. “If you’re in the database, your mutation will come up in background checks. You’ll have to switch out of your current school, leave your friends, and have a life very, very different than what you know now.” His voice was gentler than it was before, but the boy still wasn’t comforted. “If you’re fine with that, then say no more. We won’t bother you again. But, son… You should probably know that Mutant’s will treat you worse than what you’re imagining we will.”

Grantaire blinked, his eyebrows knitting together in confusion.

“You take away what they think makes them special -- what makes them _important_ ,” the Suit pressed, resting his hands on Grantaire’s shoulders. “As soon as they figure out what you can do, they’ll rip you apart. They’ll kill you. We can protect you from them, son. We’ll make sure nothing hurts you or your family.”

Grantaire wanted to say no. He wanted to squirm out of the man’s somewhat threatening hold on him, and say that he was fine without him, and he wanted to go back to the dragonfly man and beg not to be touched, to just be allowed to fall. But most of all, Grantaire just wanted to retreat into his room and be alone.

So he said okay.

And that was that.

>>>*<<<

#  PART ONE____________________________

“ _Is the suspect in sight?_ ”

“ _Coming around to your right._ ”

With a roll of his eyes, Grantaire casually tossed his half smoked cigarette into the gutter and pulled down on his leather gloves to make them more snug. His eyes flicked to the alley opposite of the one he had camped out in, meeting equally treacherous ones in a moment of hesitation before he stepped out of the shadows. He couldn’t exactly turn back now, even if his gut was telling him he should. Still, he ripped the earpiece out and tossed it in the direction of his cigarette.

He’d claim he was going deep. Or something.

He shoved his gloved hands deep into his pockets -- it would look strange for someone to be wearing them in this heat -- and only tossed a casual glance down the street before jogging across.

“You there!” a voice boomed, breaking the dewy peace the early Parisian morning brought. A few people twisted their heads to stare, just as they should. “Police!”

Grantaire kept walking, making his strides as long and as brisk as he could, and kept his eyes trained on the horizon, as if he hadn’t heard the impossibly thunderous voice.

“ _Stop_ evading questioning!” the voice came again, and a rough hand gripped his shoulder tightly, whipping him around to face the speaker. Javert looked cold, serious. Believable. “You understand that when an officer of the law calls for your attention, it is your responsibility as a citizen to give it immediately, correct?”

“I didn’t know you were speaking to me,” Grantaire replied smoothly, carefully making sure his face was nothing but indifferent. “There are other people on the street. I figured if you wanted me, you’d come get me. Thanks for proving me right, dude.”

“ _Officer Javert_ is what you’ll call me, _brat_ ,” Javert snapped, and the fingers gripping his shoulder dug into it, causing Grantaire to wince. Jesus, this dude was annoying as hell. “Your kind isn’t allowed on the streets before nine -- what do you think you’re doing out here?”

Grantaire scoffed and tried to take a step back, but the hold on his shoulder was too solid for him to move. “My coffee machine is broken, man, I don’t have time for this shit,” he protested.

And then he did a stupid thing. Well. Grantaire did plenty of stupid things, too many to remember, but this one would definitely go down in his personal history book. He pulled his hand out of his pocket and tried to push Javert’s hand off him, even though the sensible thing would have been to just comply.

Giving an officer a reason to claim self defense should have been on the bottom of his daily To Do List.

It wasn’t.

It a flash, Javert had his weapon out -- a thick, black stick that had electricity buzzing at the tip -- and Grantaire really thought he was going to be hit with a thousand volts of energy for a moment. He probably would have been if it weren’t for the arms suddenly wrapping around his torso.

“Not today, motherfucker,” came a growl from the person pulling Grantaire back. The air around them surged and crackled, and it wasn’t from the shock stick in Javert’s hand, who looked just as stunned as Grantaire felt. “No time to explain, so hold on tight, little dude,” the same voice said to him, the arms around his chest tightening. “Things are going to get fucking weird, but try not to--”

The rest of the warning was drowned by the world spinning so hard it roared in Grantaire’s ears, throwing off any sense of balance he ever hoped to have even in his most sober of times. His stomach and heart felt like they swapped places and collapsed his lungs in the process; pressure pulled at him in every direction as he struggled, and he really thought he was being torn to shreds for a time that felt dragged on.

The way he wished for death should have alarmed him, but he was in too much pain to think straight.

Just when he thought he couldn’t possibly take it anymore, it was over, and Grantaire fell to the ground shaking and gasping for breath. The air was stale, and the ground was smoother than the cobbled walk should have been, but his eyes stayed clenched shut as his body worked through the shock.

“It’ll pass, dude,” the voice from before assured, causing Grantaire to finally look up. From this angle, the man standing above him looked like a giant. His shoulders were broad, his stance wide. He had dreads piled on the top of his head and an apologetic smile on his lips. “I usually have more time to warn my passengers, but Asshole McDickhead back there made me cut the whole spiel a little short.” He leaned down slightly, offering a hand that Grantaire took without thinking, the memory of his gloves tucked far behind the sheer disbelief and confusion over what had happened. “Name’s Bahorel. Normally don’t introduce myself like that, but shit happens.”

 _Bahorel_. Grantaire filed this information away, his eyes darting over the stranger’s face, trying to memorize every rough edge. Once his vertigo had toned down enough for him to stand on his own, he ran a hand over his face. “R,” he introduced. “What in the hell just happened?”

“You just took the Bahorel Express, man,” the taller man beamed, and Grantaire could tell that he’d gotten his nose broken more than a couple times. “A little rough the first few times, but you learn how to ride _it_ , not let it ride _you_ after a while. You did good your first time.” He clapped Grantaire on the back, jostling him forward a step and a half, and let out a laugh that echoed around him. “Most people puke.”

“That… doesn’t really answer my question.” It was then that he registered they were no longer outside. Grantaire couldn’t even begin to think _where_ they were. The walls around them were solid concrete, and the hall they stood in was narrow enough to feel cramped. He glanced behind him and saw a where wall of dirt met crumbling concrete, as if the construction of whatever underground tunnel they were in had been hastily stopped. The only door was up ahead, covered with shadows, and Grantaire knew they hadn’t come in from there. “Jesus,” he breathed. “What’s going on?”

“I saved your ass, that’s what,” Bahorel replied cheerfully, and the hand on his back took to pushing him towards the door. “Do me a solid and keep your head down for the first few seconds, will you? We’re about to walk into a fucking war zone.”

“Why?”

“I’m late.”

Grantaire thought he’d been exaggerating -- the hallway was too quiet to have anything resembling a war zone nearby -- but as soon as the heavy metal door was opened, he knew it wasn’t the case.

People -- he couldn’t see how many just yet, as he was obediently keeping his head down -- flocked to them instantly, people shouting in every direction.

“Where’s the file?”

“Are you okay?”

“What happened?”

“How’s Éponine?”

And then a voice boomed over the rest, “What the fuck, Bahorel? You were supposed to be here an hour ago!”

Grantaire stole a look from under the dark curls that had fallen in front of his eyes and saw a shorter boy practically standing chest-to-chest with Bahorel, his light eyes cut into a harsh glare. His hands were balled into fists at his sides, and he didn’t seem at all intimidated that he was clearly outmatched by the taller man.

“I got a little hung up, it’s fine,” Bahorel assured, crossing his arms and effectively pushing the smaller man away from him.

“Fine?” the man’s eyes were ablaze, his voice pitched with his anger. “ _Fine_? Do you have any idea what--”

“Feuilly--”

“Don’t _Feuilly_ me,” he snapped. “How many fucking times do we have to tell you how important it is that you’re on time?”

“What the hell was I supposed to do?” Bahorel replied, his volume raising to match Feuilly’s. “Fucking leave him to Javert?”

He gestured to Grantaire then, who could suddenly feel the many pairs of eyes in the room land on him, as if they hadn’t seen him at all before. The noise died out entirely, and Grantaire could have crawled out of his skin from how tense the room suddenly felt. Slowly, he raised his head along with his arm, offering a short, hesitant wave.

“Uh, hi?”

They didn’t seem to be very appreciative of his manners.

Someone pushed through the thin curtain of people, and Grantaire’s eyes widened before he could stop himself. Golden curls framed his round face and spilled from a hair tie fastened at the crown of his head, casting the faintest shadows over his soft features. It wasn’t until the blond raised his chin that Grantaire saw his features weren’t soft at all, but hard as the steel blue of his eyes, which held a fierceness no one seemed to be able to ignore. They stepped away from him obediently, giving him the space to appraise Grantaire, and then look at Bahorel, and then back to Grantaire.

Finally, he spoke.

“Who is this?”

If Grantaire wasn’t disoriented, he would have been surprised that this angel’s voice didn’t sound like a well tuned harp, but the sound that came out seemed to fit him just as well. It was all black keys, sharp and bitter and harsh.

Jesus, he was fucking beautiful.

“Okay, chief,” Bahorel began, and he stepped between the blond and Grantaire, obstructing his view. “I know it looks bad, but if you let me explain before--”

“ _Explain_ , Bahorel,” came the terse reply. Grantaire looked down at his hands -- all he could see past the vastness of Bahorel -- and saw them clench and unclench. He blinked a few times and could have sworn he saw sparks falling from the blond’s palms, but he was logical enough to know it was from whatever Bahorel had done before.

“I was doing my errands, right?” Bahorel rushed. “Just fucking-- minding my own business. I kept my head down, did what I had to do, ignored like three assholes who didn’t have the common decency to fucking--”

“The _point_ , Bahorel,” the blond urged.

Bahorel drew a breath before he continued, his voice tight with annoyance. “As I was saying, I was keeping a low profile since Gav told us Javert was on the prowl over there. Lo and behold, as usual, the kid was fucking right, and I saw him harassing this guy.” He shifted, bringing the blond’s face back into view. If looks could kill, both Grantaire and Bahorel and everyone else in a five mile radius would be dead twice over, he was sure. “The son of a bitch had the shock stick out just because R was fucking existing and-- okay, I probably should have thought it through a little more--”

“ _Yes_ , you fucking should have,” Feuilly snapped. If Grantaire didn’t know any better by the difference in their skin, he and the blond could have passed for twins by their expressions alone.

“But all I could think about was that shit is the reason we’re doing this,” Bahorel gestured vaguely around the room, “So I just grabbed him and ran,” he finished, leaning his head back with a groan. “I would have called you and gave you a heads up if I could’ve, man, but that’s not exactly possible.”

“So you couldn’t have zapped yourself in an hour ago?” Feuilly snapped, his arms folded and his face still set in a glare. “I was _so_ fucking worried, Bahorel, I thought--”

“You thought wrong, little man, so stop fucking grilling me,” Bahorel replied sharply, squaring his shoulders as if he was preparing for a fight. Grantaire didn’t really know any better -- he could have been.

“No one’s grilling anyone.” Someone new stepped forward, a man with dark skin and glasses that looked too cool to be glasses, and placed a hand on the blond’s shoulder. Grantaire could see the tension release from under that hand, could feel it dispate all throughout the room. He watched as the blond shot a glare to someone he couldn’t see, and the atmosphere switched again like a fan had been turned on. The man with the glasses continued. “We’re all reacting harshly, so I think we should work hard to talk this through in a calm manner to get the best results. Don’t you agree, Enjolras?”

The blond tore his eyes away from whoever he had been glaring at before at the name, and Grantaire could only assume he was Enjolras. He only paused for a moment, his blue eyes going back to R thoughtfully. “That’s always best,” he finally agreed, but he didn’t sound all that sincere.

“Uh,” Grantaire forced himself to speak, raising his hand again and nearly cursing himself at the action. What was he, a twelve year old in class? He cleared his throat as expectant eyes fell on him again. “Is no one going to ask me how I feel about this? Or at least explain what’s going on?”

“Bahorel didn’t tell you anything?” Enjolras asked, taking a step closer.

“Didn’t exactly have time,” Bahorel mumbled, dutifully stepping away. From the corner of his eye, Grantaire saw Feuilly yank the larger man away. He knew Bahorel was large enough to resist it, but he followed without another word.

“So… I’m gonna shoot out a bunch of questions and see if any of them get answered. Sound good?” Grantaire asked, his eyes moving around the group of people still watching him. After a few nods, he pushed on. “What is this place?”

“That’s classified information,” Enjolras replied flatly. Okay.

“ _Where_ is this place?”

“Classified.”

“Beautiful _and_ a broken record. Cool.” Grantaire rolled his eyes and kept them on the ceiling, shoving his gloved hands into his jacket pockets again. Someone nearby snickered, but he needed to keep his focus. “Okay, am I allowed to know _how_ I got here, then?” He brought his eyes back to Enjolras, who opened his mouth to reply, but Grantaire shot out a hand to stop him, shaking his head aggressively. “No. No, no, no, you don’t get to tell me _that’s_ classified, too. Not after I was on my way to get a fucking cup of coffee, minding my own business, and was suddenly brought to this… jail cell? Jesus.” He looked around the room, made of the same cold grey concrete as the hallway that had welcomed him. “You really should fire your decorator.”

“We don’t have a decorator,” Enjolras deadpanned.

“Yeah, no shit,” Grantaire replied incredulously, feeling his eyes widen with his disbelief. Who _was_ this guy? “Who are you?” he repeated his own thoughts aloud, figuring it wasn’t going to be answered anyways.

At least he could tell the people back home that he tried.

“Before we answer your questions, you need to answer some of ours first,” the man with glasses stepped in again, offering an apologetic, kind smile. He placed a hand on Enjolras’ shoulder once more, which the blond took as his cue to take a small step back. “I don’t believe we’ve exchanged names just yet.” He offered his hand, and Grantaire only stared at it. “I’m Combeferre.”

Hesitantly, he took Combeferre’s offer on the shake, and he knew it was a weak one. “R,” he replied. He saw the other man’s eyes dart to his gloves, and he hadn’t come up with a good enough lie for that yet, so he quickly slipped his hand back into his pocket.

“Like the letter?” Combeferre asked. There was warmth in his voice, like he was trying to be the complete opposite of the harsh Enjolras, and Grantaire couldn’t tell if it was genuine or not.

“That’d be the one,” Grantaire replied flatly, raising his eyebrows. “Can I ask my questions now? And actually get some answers?”

“Just a few more questions of our own and we’ll get to yours,” Combeferre assured, guiding Grantaire gingerly to a nearby table. Enjolras and a third man followed them, leaving everyone else to disperse slowly, although he could feel all their eyes in his direction. The trio sat, and Combeferre gestured to a fourth chair. “Please, join us. Make yourself comfortable.”

“Well, you know, it’s no throne, but I guess it’ll do,” Grantaire mumbled, slumping into the seat that was offered to him. His eyes darted over the faces in attempt to commit each of them to memory -- as an artist, he was good at that, but as an artist, he found himself lingering on Enjolras longer than what was necessary.

“I’d like to know what happened before Bahorel brought you here,” Combeferre began, tearing Grantaire’s eyes away from the blond. “What did Javert say to you?”

“The asshole with the stick?” Grantaire asked, and despite them not being there, they nodded. He shrugged. “He was yelling something about me being out too early or whatever. I don’t know. I just wanted coffee.”

“What time was it?” The nameless third man was speaking now, leaning forward with a tiny smile playing with his lips that struck Grantaire as mischievous. Something flicked over his face, and his lips widened. “Sorry, forgot my manners. I’m Courfeyrac.”

“Thanks, dude,” Grantaire nodded, and he was genuinely grateful. If nothing else, at least he had names. “I don’t know -- it was like thirty minutes ago, I guess?”

“That doesn’t help us,” Enjolras snapped.

“Time is kind of irrelevant here,” Courfeyrac explained quickly. He leaned back and went to ruffle a hand through Enjolras’ curls, but he was dodged sharply before he could. “Sorry about this one. Patience isn’t one of his virtues.”

“We don’t have _time_ for patience, Courf,” Enjolras insisted, shooting the other man a glare. “Just tell us the time, R.”

“Jesus, fine, it was like seven in the morning. I don’t see why it matters.”

He was cringing at himself, honestly. He knew he would be shit at lying -- a lie took too much work than he’d like to give, and it required continuity he didn’t trust himself to give. So the next best was playing dumb, and letting these people believe whatever they wanted to believe. It wasn’t like he was going to stay here long. He just needed to gather intelligence, and then his job was done. Making it any bigger than that would lead to complications down the line, and complications were what he was trying to avoid. Still, it didn’t make playing dumb settle on him any better.

“Javert is Mutant,” Enjolras replied coolly, and Grantaire almost forgot to act surprised. He widened his eyes, and the blond seemed satisfied with the reaction.

“But he was wearing the…” A hand waved at his breast, patting at the spot most Anti-Mutant advocators wore their emblem on.

“He’s a damn traitor,” Courfeyrac growled.

“He’s been a thorn in our side for years,” Combeferre expanded.

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” Grantaire lied. “I’m not involved in… whatever this is.”

He was glad there was no way he could hate himself any more than he already did.

“That’s not true at all, actually,” Enjolras leaned forward, his hands clasping in between his slightly spread legs, his eyes never straying from Grantaire’s face. It was like he was looking right through him, like his skin and bones were nothing at all. Despite Combeferre and Courfeyrac clearly being better with the whole people skills thing, Enjolras was obviously the leader of this group. “For starters, you’re here. You’ve seen us. That makes you more involved than I’d like, but it can’t be helped now.” He paused, Grantaire’s eyes still helplessly locked with the blue ones before him. “The second reason is that you’re Mutant. Our fight is yours.”

This part was easy. He had already lived it before, and if Grantaire was good at anything at all, it was repeating himself. He had the same conversation with someone years before, and it was a memory he knew well enough to reenact. He let out a sharp peel of laughter, startling Enjolras in the process. “You’re fucking joking, right?”

“No, I’m not joking,” Enjolras replied, sitting up straighter, and he blinked through his surprise at Grantaire’s reaction. “If Javert says you’re Mutant, I’m inclined to believe him.”

“And why’s that?” Grantaire challenged, his lips pulled into a lopsided smirk. It was somewhat genuine -- he had to admit that watching someone as put together as Enjolras be confused by him was enjoyable.

“His mutation gives him the ability to detect people like him, Grantaire,” Combeferre said softly, pulling his attention away from the pinched expression on Enjolras’ face that was only growing more annoyed.

Grantaire’s smirk dimmed. He didn’t know that. Before he could stop himself, he was cursing and slumping deeper into his chair, his gloved fingers twisting into his curls as his twitching began. They had kept shit from him. He should have known they would have, but this? Outing him to a group that was a known Mutant coalition who required more and more like them every day? It was suddenly becoming crystal fucking clear that this wasn’t a one-off intelligence deal.

He was going to have to come _back_.

“I know it may be a shock, but it’s best to just accept it immediately,” Enjolras assured bluntly, yanking R out of his thoughts.

“Do you have your degree in therapy or something? Because, let me tell you, you’re fucking superb at this whole comforting thing,” Grantaire snapped, harsher than he meant. His mind was a mess -- piecing together things that had seemed suspect from his last meeting with the Suits, and cursed himself for ignoring it.

“This is a safe place,” Enjolras continued seamlessly, as if he hadn’t heard the insult. “Bahorel’s mutation causes a temporary tear in time and space, which is what you broke through to get here. We’re an undisclosed amount of kilometers underground, an undisclosed--”

“Undisclosed,” Grantaire repeated flatly.

“An _undisclosed_ amount of years behind the present,” Enjolras continued, refusing to be deterred.

“Years… What?” Fuck. Fuck fuck _fuck_ , this was _not_ what he agreed to.

“Not to mention that we’re nowhere near Paris, or Javert, and everyone in this room is Mutant,” Enjolras finished. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing his new guest carefully. “What I’m trying to emphasize is that this is somewhere no one will hurt you. You can come to terms with who you are, and maybe even figure out what it is exactly that--”

“I already know who I am,” Grantaire interrupted, and he though he knew he was only a few points away from being hit -- or worse -- he couldn’t bring himself to care. He waved his gloved hands in the air, and all three of them took note of them as if they hadn’t noticed before, even though Grantaire knew they must have. He ran a quick hand over his face, blowing hot air from his cheeks in attempt to grab hold of a single thread of logic that would get him out of here. Of course, this failed, and he resorted to his best defense mechanism -- sarcasm. “Do you think I’m the morning shift jewel thief or something? I know what I am and what I can do, so can I go?”

He pulled his hands away to look at them, and saw the three look as though they were having a conversation without words. With just a few quirked eyebrows, a decision seemed to have been made, and Enjolras spoke it for all of them. “We can’t let you do that,” he said, his tone final.

Grantaire wasn’t surprised, so he didn’t fight it. Of course they couldn’t let him do that -- he was a stranger, and they went through _undisclosed_ lengths to keep this place a secret. They may have been under the impression that they saved his life, but that didn’t make him any less of a liability. He had to earn their trust, and trust them in return, and it was all a big fucking joke because he _was_ a liability.

“Hey, it’s really not all that bad,” Courfeyrac assured after a few beats of silence. Maybe Grantaire would have believed him if he wasn’t sitting in the middle of a future battle field. “We’ve got all the basics, and the people here are the best there is.”

Grantaire’s eyes finally slipped away from Enjolras, slowly moving all around the large room he hadn’t had time to look at before. It was built like a bunker, except he was sure the entire first floor of his apartment building could fit inside this room alone. The ceiling was high, made of the same solid, smooth gray concrete as the hallway, and the corners were darkened with what Grantaire assumed to be age. There were all sorts of lights -- long fluorescent bulbs secured to the wall, round ones extended from hooks in the ceiling, and various table and floor lamps scattered around on the many mismatched tables. There was another wall, leading somewhere Grantaire couldn’t see, and a door -- not the one he and Bahorel walked through -- next to that wall.

He knew he should ask about those, but _not_ asking about them was his spiteful way of getting back at the suits.

“This looks like a fucking prison,” he finally replied.

Enjolras, Combeferre, and Courfeyrac’s mouths all quirked with the same smile, as if what Grantaire had said was a joke they were all in on, at the same time. It would have been creepy if-- No. No, it was definitely still creepy. He had to wonder if they had a psychic link. It wasn’t impossible, or even far-fetched, and he was about to ask before Enjolras spoke again.

“Our society is what has brought us to seeking solace in what you call a prison,” he replied. His shoulders were still tense, but they were relaxing slowly. “Hopefully you’ll see it the same as the rest of us soon.”

“Considering I was brought here against my will, and apparently I’ll _stay_ here in the same fashion, I doubt the whole prison feeling is going to go away anytime soon,” Grantaire snapped.

“If Bahorel didn’t step in your other option would have been death,” Enjolras snapped in return, his shoulders hiking right back to where they were just moments before.

“I’ll be sure to send him a Thanks But No Thanks card from an undisclosed time in the future.”

“How can yo--” Before the blond finish his bite, Combeferre put his hand on Enjolras’ shoulder -- for the third time in however long R had been there, and he hadn’t been there all that long. Absently, he wondered if they were together. Logically, he knew it didn’t fucking matter.

“Courfeyrac, why don’t you show Grantaire around?” Combeferre asked as he and Enjolras stood together, another silent conversation happening between the two. “Enjolras and I need to debrief Bahorel now.”

“No problem, _mi bichito_ ,” Courfeyrac sang, swiping at Combeferre playfully, who just pushed his friend’s hand away, his face nothing but fond. Courfeyrac twisted in his seat to face Grantaire again, and the man took on an impish expression as soon as his two counterparts were out of sight. “So,” he began, too casually to be casual. “How do you feel about heights?”

“Indifferent,” Grantaire hesitated, eyeing the boyish man carefully.

“Excellent.” He jumped from his chair, and stretched his short, thin limbs theatrically, before he motioned to be followed. “Let’s meet the best Mutants the world has to offer.”

Grantaire was almost one-hundred percent certain he didn’t want to know how those two trains of thoughts connected.

The rest of the group were just as friendly as Courfeyrac, and they were all startlingly open about their mutations. Out in the real world, no one was expected to talk about them. If you were Mutant, and you didn’t _look_ Mutant, you thanked whatever god you believed in and carried on like a normal person. Here, in this bunker or whatever the hell it was, your mutation was as good as your name, it seemed.

Bahorel, as Grantaire had already learned, had the ability to create portals and go wherever he pleased. Why he chose the stale, concrete air over literally anywhere else was anyone’s guess, but he did and the others relied on him for transport. He was apparently the only way in and out.

Feuilly could create force fields with just a flick of his wrist. He demonstrated when Bahorel pestered them -- whatever fight they were having had been resolved, Grantaire supposed, though Feuilly did roll his eyes a little too often to be considered friendly towards him -- and deflected an air-bound pencil with a small square of shimmering air. If he concentrated enough, he explained, it could withstand up to sixty three bullets. Grantaire didn’t really want to know how he had such a precise number, but he wouldn’t put it past these people to test their mutations by shooting guns at one another.

As Feuilly and Bahorel got into a pencil throwing fight, and Courfeyrac continued talking about something he wasn’t paying attention to, Grantaire found his focus gravitating towards Enjolras’ direction. He was talking quietly with Combeferre at a table on the other side of the wide room, their heads bowed together to keep their words only for each other. Blond curls had escaped his hair tie, falling gracefully onto his shoulder. From this far away, he didn’t seem real.

A hand patting his shoulder caused him to jump and duck away on instinct, ripping his eyes away from Enjolras to look back at Courfeyrac, who was smiling softly. He drew his hand back when Grantaire moved further away.

“Sorry. I’m guessing because of the whole gloves thing you don’t like to be touched.”

“Not a big fan of it,” Grantaire confirmed, subconsciously tucking his leather gloves around his wrists and into his shirt.

“He’s not always like that, you know,” Courfeyrac continued with a nod in Enjolras’ direction. When Grantaire only raised an eyebrow in response, he elaborated. “Cold, I mean. He’s a really nice person when he gets used to you.”

“Let him know he has the whole _leader of an underground gang_ role to a T,” Grantaire snorted. He wished it didn’t take effort not to look at Enjolras, because he wouldn’t have tossed another glance over his shoulder. He was tucking his hair back up into his hair tie again, revealing the slender bones in his neck. _God_ , he couldn’t be real.

“He’ll be offended at that accusation,” Courfeyrac laughed, bringing Grantaire’s eyes back to him again and shaking his head. “We’re not a gang--”

“That would be badass,” Bahorel interjected. Grantaire hadn’t known he’d been listening. “We should totally be a gang.”

“Enjolras wouldn’t go for it,” Feuilly snorted, effortlessly sending another pencil flying back to his friend.

“Majority rules, dude,” Bahorel grinned, only just barely dodging the sharp end. “He’s the one who says we’re a democracy, remember?”

“What do you guys do anyways?” Grantaire asked. “If I’m allowed to ask or whatever.”

“We’re an activist group,” Courfeyrac answered. “Mutant Rights are our main focus, but we’ve been known to focus on other issues, too. Name anything wrong with the world and we’ve probably been angry about it.”

“Or arrested for it,” Feuilly laughed, shoving Bahorel playfully.

“So you just… Come to some underground lair to get mad about stuff?” Grantaire asked incredulously. “What the hell does that do?”

_And why do you matter to them so much?_

“No, little dude, it’s more than that.” Bahorel shook his head, his face suddenly serious. “Out there? It’s total shit. We know it’s total shit, you know it’s total shit, everyone and their mom knows it’s total shit. Some of us can hide who we are on the surface, but that gets fucking exhausting after a while, you know? We don’t have to do that here.”

Grantaire did know. These people say they understood, but if they knew the things he did to just barely get by, to keep the near constant watch off his back, they’d all hate him for it. Hell, _he_ hated himself for it. As he looked around the large bunker with Bahorel’s eyes, suddenly it didn’t seem so bad that he wouldn’t be able to leave. He’d never be able to tell these people what his mutation was -- he’d be the outcast among outcasts -- but at least he wouldn’t have to hurt them.

“That’s still not all it is,” Courfeyrac continued. “But, ah… The rest is…”

“Classified?” Grantaire guessed with a smirk. His eyes only darted to Enjolras for a split second then. He didn’t even look to see if his hair had fallen from his tie again.

“Hey, look at you, fast learner!” Courfeyrac laughed -- his laugh beat him in size easily. He went to playfully smack Grantaire on the back before he paused, quickly turning his flat palm into finger guns. He winked as if they shared a joke. “I like you already.”

Grantaire just laughed in response, not knowing how else to reply. If these people mistakenly trusted him and sent him home, at least he wouldn’t have shit to tell the Suits. All he knew was that these Mutants just wanted solidarity away from the world that hated them, and Grantaire didn’t see anything wrong with that.

Courfeyrac jumped out of his chair suddenly, stretching again as if every time he sat made his body tired, and gestured for Grantaire to follow him. “There’s more people you should meet,” he grinned, already moving before R had the chance to stand. As Grantaire followed, Courfeyrac spoke animatedly, gesturing wildly with his hands as they walked. “Not everyone is here. It’s really rare when we’re in the same spot at the same time, but we try. There’s… What?” He questioned himself, quickly counting on his fingers. “Five of us missing today. But -- y’know -- you’ll probably meet them soon enough. Maybe. If you want. Which you definitely _should_.” They arrived at a table with three others, two men and a woman, who were huddled together, laughing loudly despite their close proximity. “This is Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta,” Courfeyrac presented grandly. Grantaire couldn’t help but note that every action the man gave was theatrical. “This, _mis amigos_ , is R.”

“Cool name,” one of the men grinned, giving Grantaire a thumbs up like a seal of approval.

“Wicked cool. Super mysterious. Are you a spy?” The smaller man’s eyes lit up as he leaned forward, and Grantaire’s heart skipped a few beats before laughter signified it was a joke. He looked to the man that had spoken before. “Bossuet, start calling me _J_. I want to be wicked cool, too!”

“It’s, um,” Grantaire cleared his throat awkwardly. God, he hated meeting new people when he was sober. Fill him up with alcohol and he could befriend anybody, but now? He still hadn’t had coffee. “My name is Grantaire, actually. R is just…”

“Oh no,” the woman -- Musichetta, presumably -- groaned, her hands covering her face.

“Oh my God! Now you’re even cooler!” Joly laughed hard, as if Grantaire’s stupid pun was the best thing he’d ever heard. He gestured for him to step closer, beckoning towards a seat. “Sit, sit! I want to get to know my new best friend!”

“Whatever happens after this point, I take zero responsibility for it,” Musichetta swore, though her lips were tugging into a fond smile.

“Did you puke when Bahorel brought you here?” Bossuet asked as R sat down.

“Nah,” he replied with a smirk.

“Damn.”

“Laigle threw up for four hours after his first trip,” Joly explained, his nose wrinkling at the memory. “Nothing would help him, not even Chetta.”

“Turns out nausea doesn’t count as an emotion,” Bossuet replied sadly.

“I’m like a walking Xanax,” Chetta filled in. The way they spoke was seamless, as if they were all sharing a mind and speaking the same sentences. It was jarring, and Grantaire didn’t know how to reply to any of it. She waved her fingers in the air with a teasing smile. “I can chill out those who cannot be chilled.”

Suddenly, what happened before with the tension in the room from before -- and the glare Enjolras had cast into the unknown -- made sense.

“I guess it sucks you’re not Pepto Bismol,” Grantaire supplied, a little hesitant. He wasn’t sure how he would fit in a conversation with these three -- even Courfeyrac was just watching with a smile.

But the three of them burst into laughter, and it made Grantaire feel… good. The weak joke hadn’t even been that funny, but they all laughed genuinely. He joined them, though his wasn’t as loud, and it was easy to forget that he wasn’t as welcome here as they made him feel.

“I love our new best friend,” Bossuet nodded decisively, and Joly joined in agreement. Chetta just smiled warmly at him.

“Jesus,” Grantaire huffed, running a hand through his surely disastrous hair. “This really is nothing but a love club, isn’t it? No wonder none of you feel like prisoners. Ridiculous.” _This whole thing is ridiculous. None of them are dangerous. Why the fuck do they think you’re dangerous?_

“We’re freer in here than we are out there,” Chetta shrugged.

“It’s important to make sure people who’ve never felt welcome anywhere feel welcome here,” Joly nodded.

“All the love can be pretty intense, but, like you were told before, it’s best to just accept it,” Courfeyrac grinned. “We’re known to be pretty aggressive huggers, but I’m sure we’ll figure something else out for you.” He winked, and then looked to the other three to explain. “R doesn’t like to be touched.”

“No touching,” Joly nodded immediately. “Got it.” He paused before his eyes lit up again -- it had to be the millionth time in the past five minutes. Like he was constantly brimming with excitement just waiting to bubble over with the smallest sign of happiness. “How about we hug Laigle every time we want to hug you?” he asked with a laugh, bumping into Bossuet cheerily. Grantaire didn’t know if _Laigle_ was his nickname, or _Bossuet_ , but it was pretty easy to figure out that he was both.

“That seems like a fair trade,” Grantaire agreed, sliding his eyes over to Bossuet. “Careful now. I know it may come as a shock given my bright and cheery nature, but people tend to want to punch me more than they want to hug me. I’m guessing you’re going to take those too?”

“If I must,” he nodded seriously, as though he had just been bestowed with something of honor. He broke out in a grin, and Grantaire decided that he liked him.

Which was a bad thing.

He wasn’t here to make friends.

“So,” he started, careful to keep his smirk. “Bahorel and Feuilly both put on a little show for me to spotlight their mutations. Pretty tough acts to follow, honestly, given that pencils a la darts were involved as well as the disruption of the spacetime continuum were involved, but I have faith that you can hold your own.”

Joly, Bossuet, and Musichetta exchanged glances and a silent conversation before any of them spoke.

“I can fly?” Bossuet offered. It came out like a question, as if he wasn’t so sure of it himself. It was then that Grantaire noticed that he wasn’t really sitting in his chair -- he had just been hovering over it with his hands holding onto the table like an anchor. “I’m not very good at it,” he admitted.

“He’s scared of heights,” Musichetta explained, her lips quirking into a small smile.

“Shit, seriously?” Grantaire balked, letting out a sharp laugh before he doubled over. “Oh my God, dude, that’s the worst luck. I thought _I_ had it bad, but--”

He stopped himself before he could finish and dropped his eyes to the table to stare at his hands. Chetta had to have been playing with his emotions, because he was way too comfortable, and bringing attention to something he did _not_ want attention for, and how could he be so careless and stupid and--

“I know,” Bossuet agreed with a sigh, and no one questioned Grantaire’s statement any further.

“I don’t have a gift,” Joly said, bringing his gaze away from R's gloved hands. He knew his startled expression didn’t cause for anything verbal, because it was elaborated in the next instant. “I’ve known Laigle since I was fourteen, so he’s part of the reason why I’m here. I met him at the hospital.”

“If you met each other there, then…” Grantaire furrowed his eyebrows quizzically. There were separate wings in hospitals for Mutants and non-Mutants.

“Mutants and Mutant related attacks are in the same wing,” Joly nodded, and he didn’t look excited then. He slowly lifted his left pant leg to reveal his leg -- no. It was a prosthetic, a few shades too dark and too much shine to be his natural limb. “It was an accident. I don’t-- really want to talk about it, but it wasn’t the Mutant’s fault, and if it wasn’t for them I wouldn’t have met Laigle.” He pulled his pant leg back down and smiled warmly at the other man, who smiled back with nothing but understanding in his eyes. There was love there; Grantaire saw it before Joly looked back to him. “The Mutant went to jail anyways, even though they didn’t mean to hurt me. So that’s why I’m here -- for them. And for Laigle, and for Chetta, and for everyone else.” His smile returned as the subject turned away from his past, and R knew better than to press more for it. It wasn’t his place. “I think everything happens for a reason, and I wouldn’t have the two best partners in the world if it weren’t for what happened. Plus I’m, like, a cyborg now. Which is easily the coolest thing in the _world_.”

Chetta and Bossuet both leaned over to press kisses into Joly’s hair, who squirmed happily under the attention.

“Shit, I’m gonna cry-- I fucking love this story, come into my arms, _amores_ ,” Courfeyrac sniffed dramatically, leaning forward to wrap the three of them in a hug.

It happened quickly, too quickly for any of them to do anything about it. Joly had a cane, but his reflexes weren’t exactly quick, since all he managed to do was wave it in the air helplessly as Bossuet and Courfeyrac shot to the ceiling.

“Courf, no!” Joly cried, but it was too late.

“Holy shit,” Grantaire breathed, his eyes going wide as they turned above. It looked like Courfeyrac and Bossuet were wrestling against the high overhead, but Grantaire knew enough to know that one of them was just trying to hold on tightly to the other. Before he could stop himself, he was laughing, bending over the table and keeping his eyes locked on the spectacle as the two panicked men scrambled for something.

“Bossuet, put me down!” Courfeyrac cried out, wrapping his limbs around the other man desperately.

“I really do not think you want me to do that!” Bossuet replied, his voice just as panicked, and he clung to Courfeyrac just as hard.

“Focus, Bossuet!” Joly called up, waving his cane as if he was trying to direct the wayward men with it. He was standing now, supporting himself with his chair, but was still off by at least fifteen feet. “Please don’t drop him! I know it’s tempting--”

“Hey!” Courfeyrac called, looking more like a spider monkey the longer they were up there.

“--but he’ll probably break his neck if you do! We don’t want that, okay?”

“We definitely do not want that!” Courf agreed.

“What are you _doing_?” came a sharp demand. Grantaire looked over his shoulder to find Enjolras standing behind him, his eyes narrowed as he watched his friends.

“Oh, you know,” Courf began slowly -- he was trying to sound casual but his voice was too pitched to be anything but panicked, “Just hanging out.”

“You _know_ you’re not supposed to touch Bossuet, Courfeyrac,” Enjolras chastised.

“I know this might be a surprise to you, but you’re not _helping, Enjolras_ ,” Courfeyrac shouted. He yelped as he and Laigle drastically dipped and rose again, both of their heads bumping on the ceiling.

“Courf’s gift multiplies other people’s,” Musichetta explained quietly next to Grantaire, her voice barely above a whisper. Her calm brown eyes were trained carefully on the two above as if all of her concentration was going towards them. “Ferre calls it Augmentation. Touching Bossuet is essentially…”

She trailed off, her hands clenching and unclenching at her sides. Above them, the yelling stopped, and Grantaire’s laughter died down with the chaos in the room. _Walking Xanax_ , he remembered.

“Letting a balloon go?” he finished helpfully. His laughter may have stopped, but his smirk was amused as ever.

“Something like that,” she breathed. Her hand went out to touch Joly’s shoulder, who was trying unsuccessfully to climb on a chair, although that would have provided little help since the other two were at least twenty feet above them. “Baby, no,” she said gently, stopping him in his wobbling tracks. “They’ll figure it out.”

The wall next to Courfeyrac and Bossuet ripped open, and Bahorel’s torso came through the hole, laughing as he did. Grantaire checked back at the table he and Feuilly had been at and saw the rest of him casually leaning into nothing but air. His eyes went back to Bahorel, and then back to his ass. Fucking weird. Cool, but weird.

 _Still not dangerous_.

“Need help?” Bahorel teased, reaching out his obnoxiously muscular arms to take hold of Courfeyrac, who had stopped screaming, but still looked every bit as terrified as before. “Sorry, dude, I can’t really help you when you’re like this,” he told Bossuet, hastily unsticking Courfeyrac and disappearing through the hole in an instant. They reappeared where the rest of Bahorel’s body waited, thankfully.

“This is what happens when you mess around,” Enjolras mumbled under his breath, causing Grantaire to turn to him and away from Joly and Chetta coxing Bossuet back down.

“You really had me thinking this was some kind of weird work camp,” Grantaire laughed, leaning back on the table and crossing his arms over his chest. “But the entertainment isn’t half bad. I don’t think I’ll mind imprisonment too much if shit like that keeps happening.”

“You’re not a prisoner,” Enjolras shot back. Grantaire was beginning to think this guy didn’t just _say_ anything -- it was either a lecture or an insult. “I know you just got here and you haven’t been told much, but this isn’t a game, R. We can’t afford _entertainment_ , and we certainly can’t afford to lose bodies because of it. Which could have happened.”

“But it didn’t,” Grantaire supplied, quirking his eyebrow with some amusement. “Look, Bossuet’s reentering the atmosphere as we speak. They’ll all have a good laugh about it and be happier for it. Isn’t that what a safe space is for?”

“It provides _safety_ so we can do our _work_ ,” Enjolras huffed, rolling his eyes as if he were thinking of a million better things to do than have this discussion.

So Grantaire pushed.

“Work for what?” he asked, feigning innocence. Part of him knew he shouldn’t be asking these questions -- it would be easier to tell the Suits nothing when that was all he knew -- but something about the uptight blond made Grantaire want to see how far he could stretch.

“The future.”

Oh. So that’s what made this group of misfits subjects of interest.

“So… what? You’re a bunch of extremists?” Grantaire asked, his eyebrows furrowing as he glanced around. Sure, they had the walking, talking muscle that was Bahorel, but other than him the group didn’t seem like too much of a threat. “Mutant and Proud?”

“We have some of their ideals, yes, but we don’t think we’re better than those without gifts.” _Gifts_. Musichetta had called their mutations that, too. Enjolras’ eyebrows furrowed right along with R’s as he spoke. “We want a future that has harmony between all of the human race, Mutants and non-Mutants alike, where everyone can be proud of who they are regardless of their DNA. That shouldn’t be a radical idea, should it? That should be a birthright, to stand on equal ground with your fellow man!”

Grantaire was mesmerized, for lack of another adjective. Enjolras’ voice raised as he went on, and R could have sworn that the light in the room change. The whole atmosphere did. He could feel everyone looking towards Enjolras, he could see some taking a step forward from the corner of his eye, all of them just as captivated by this… entity, just as he was.

“But it isn’t,” Enjolras continued, his stormy blue eyes locked on Grantaire’s, keeping him there, holding him, and _God_ he wouldn’t dare move away from them. He thought of the dragonfly Mutant for the first time in years, suddenly reminded of that warmth. “They take away our fundamental rights, they strip us of our humanity, they steal our _lives_ , and what do they replace it with? Curfews, and rules, and regulations, and this _absurd_ Mutant Registration Act that’s about to pass is going to make it even worse. The Mutant and Proud extremists want to keep up the _us-versus-them_ mentality we’ve been forced into for the sake of survival -- and we can’t blame our people for fighting with fire when it’s all they’ve ever been given -- but we can certainly try to show there is a different way.”

Grantaire was almost speechless. He almost believed what he was hearing without question. Almost.

“How do you plan on doing that?” he asked, raising his eyebrows out of curiosity that was simply his own. There was no ulterior motive, no memory of the Suits lurking in the foreground of his mind -- he actually wanted to know.

“By rallying the people,” Enjolras answered, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “By making them see us, see how we’re like them, and they’re like us, and that we can _help_ each other. Think of the things we, as a collective world, could accomplish if Mutant’s were given the same opportunities as everyone else! It’s… limitless. It’s amazing.” He smiled then, his teeth impossibly white and brilliant and Grantaire couldn’t decide if it was the mouth that moved him or the hope laced words that came out of it. “Combeferre’s mind is better than any computer out there. He can store and calculate information by just glancing at it, and it’s there forever. That alone is a personal infinite he could create; that alone is _progress_ , but think of the others! Think of Musichetta in a hospital, in a courtroom, hell, think of her anywhere! You’ve already seen how Bahorel can help, so think of--”

“The Mutant who took off Joly’s leg?”

The words left Grantaire’s mouth before he could stop them and his heart raced in the silent aftermath. He wished it had been a thorough accident, but he knew it hadn’t been. Enjolras’ words were nice -- they were captivating, they were poetry, they were as beautiful as he was -- but that was all they were.

“R,” Enjolras growled, his stunned expression narrowing into a glare. “That was completely--”

“Uncalled for? No, I know, but someone had to say it. The world in your head? It sounds really fucking great, truly, and believe me when I say that I’d be the first one signing those citizenship papers if it was real. But it’s not. And it won’t ever be because of cases like that. You’re _dangerous_ to them, and if you’re not dangerous, and somehow they see your _mutation_ as useful, you’re a tool. Do you think a shovel is equal to a man?”

“They’re _gifts_ \--”

“To hell with your _gifts_ and your _powers_ and your ideals!” Grantaire countered, his words dripping with as much venom as Enjolras was shooting out his eyes. “That’s what’d they say, at least. Combeferre has a mind greater than any computer on Earth, you say, well good for Combeferre! I hope he enjoys sitting in a room filled with machines as they connect a hundred wires to his brain to suck the life out of him to put into their own shit, is what I say. Musichetta can make peace with just a wave of her hand? They’ll chop off her hands. Bahorel will be killed on sight before they even know what he can do because _God forbid_ if you’re physically threatening on top of being Mutant and-- Jesus, have you seriously not given this any thought at all?” he asked incredulously, his eyes wild. “They don’t want progress to be credited to you and they definitely don’t want help -- they want your fucking _head_.”

“Um, Grantaire…” Courf snuck his hesitant words into R’s pause for breath, but he wasn’t done.

“Do you know who you sound like?” he continued, his lips pulling up from a frown into a rueful smile. “You sound like Doctor Charles Xavier. I bet you’ve read all of his books, haven’t you? Yeah, I know you have, because I’ve read them too and you strike me as someone who likes that shit, so forgive me if I’m not up to par with your knowledge. I think it was his fifth book -- if you can even call it that, honestly, because when I skimmed them all I saw was a plea -- that said _There is no us, there is no them, there is only Man_. Is that who you’re pulling your philosophy from? I don’t want to spoil the ending for anyone, because I’m not too sure what kind of news from the outside world you get down here, but you know what happened to that man who tried to rally the people? He was fucking _murdered_.”

“That’s _enough_!” Enjolras yelled, and suddenly flames were everywhere, licking Grantaire’s face playfully, illuminating every corner in the room, shining too brightly to be an ordinary fire.

The flames were coming from Enjolras.

He was in the center of them, pulsating with them, _being_ them, and Grantaire couldn’t breathe because the heat sucked the air from his lungs and _holy shit it was the most beautiful fucking thing he’d ever seen._

A rush of calm hit him just as hard as the heat of Enjolras, and Grantaire didn’t have to look to know it was Musichetta. Despite being dangerously close to the burning man, he didn’t dare move, he didn’t dare look away. The suffocating flames, combined in his own residual annoyance, Grantaire felt alive. He felt alive without needing to suck it from someone else, without having to search desperately for it at the bottom of a bottle. He felt alive just standing there, watching as this man’s passion manifest itself as something so _powerful_ , and he never wanted to leave it.

He tried to ignore the thought of how amazing it would feel to touch him. He tried to ignore the craving for the burning through his veins as he absorbed it.

The fire raged around Enjolras for at least two minutes, and Grantaire could see his face through the flames struggling to regain control. For a moment, he looked almost scared, which caused his body to burn brighter and hotter. Finally, with closed eyes and an expression of pinched concentration, the flames disappeared. They didn’t sizzle out so much as they receded back into Enjolras’ body; his clothes looked undisturbed with the exception of the flannel that had been tucked haphazardly underneath his sweater, which now lay in singed rags at his feet. Grantaire had about a hundred questions, but for once in his life he was rendered completely speechless.

Combeferre was at Enjolras’ side as soon as it was safe, his hands immediately going to the blond’s face, his eyes narrowed in careful concern as they flicked over the other man’s appearance and checked for damage. “Are you okay?” he asked in a whisper, but the room was so deafeningly silent that his words echoed.

“Yes,” Enjolras whispered in return, shaking his head out of Combeferre’s hands. He waved to the corner where they had been before. “You should check the…”

“I can do that in a minute. My priority is making sure you didn’t just hurt yourself.”

“And I told you-- I’m fine.” His words were final, and his full lips pressed together stubbornly before he turned away from the taller man entirely, his sharp blue eyes falling to Grantaire. His chin raised regally, his face clear of any residual embarrassment he should have had by losing control of himself so intensely. “By making you stay, I had hopes you would maybe want to join us once you saw what we’re about, but it’s apparent you’re nothing but a liability. We need numbers, as many as we can get, but we don’t need someone who thinks we’re hopeless. You’ve made your point clear, and you’re free to go.”

The words were too calculated and formal for Grantaire to buy the calmness he was trying to present, and part of him actually felt badly for pushing someone who appeared to be so collected to that breaking point. But another part of him wanted to see it again and again and never wanted that intensity to leave him. It was better this way, however.

“So you do admit you were holding me against my will,” Grantaire snorted, shoving his hands back into his pocket with a roll of his shoulders. “Thanks for your dismissal, Lord Apollo.”

Enjolras dropped his eyes away, his lips thinning again for a few beats before he just shook his head. “If you think we’re not aware of the consequences to come out of our fight, you’re wrong. We know what we’re doing.”

“Cutting off your nose to spite your face?” Grantaire suggested, and he knew he should stop. But he couldn’t. “Dying in vain?”

“You’re beyond my help,” Enjolras mumbled, taking a step back. “And we’re beyond yours. Bahorel, if you would.”

“On it, yep,” Bahorel replied, appearing next to Grantaire, who he flashed an apologetic grin to. “Anything else, chief?”

“Try not to be late coming back this time,” Enjolras grumbled, and then he turned away and walked over to where Combeferre stood, Grantaire watching him all the while.

“Ready for the Bahorel Express again, man?” he asked the larger, who held out his hand expectantly. “I can do my speech this time and everything, so--”

“It’s fine,” Grantaire waved him off with his shoulder, stepping closer. “I don’t hold hands, man.”

“Whatever you say, little dude. Where to?”

Grantaire, still a little unsure about how this portal thing worked, hesitantly gave the address to his apartment. Taking a few seconds to work a map out in his head, Bahorel nodded, and the air ripped for the third time that day. The second time wasn’t any less unsettling as the first, and Grantaire ended up with his hand tightly wrapped around Bahorel’s forearm despite having rejected it before. He ended up gasping in the alley next to his apartment, falling back against the brick as he tried to steady the spinning in his head. Seriously, traveling that way was worse than any hangover Grantaire had _ever_ experienced.

“Jesus--” he heaved, pressing his forehead onto one of the trash cans against the wall. It smelled horrible, but at least the tin was cool enough to keep him from throwing up everything he’d consumed in his life up to this point.

“Like I said, gets easier every time,” Bahorel replied gently, but the hand thumping R’s back was less so.

He stayed until Grantaire could stand upright again, and even then he scuffed the asphalt with the toe of his boot.

“You’re going to be late,” R prompted with a quirk of his eyebrows.

“Y’know-- I can see your side of shit,” Bahorel started, his hands unwrapping the piled dreads at the crown of his head, just to start wrapping them again. “It seems really fucking hopeless, I get that. Honestly, I’m only in it to fuck shit up. Getting something done is just a bonus, and Enj knows that. Does he like it? Nah. Does he try to convince me that raising hell should be the bonus instead of the other way around? Like every _fucking_ day, oh my God, it’s so annoying.” He leaned against the wall opposite of Grantaire once his hair was in a twisted bun, and he shrugged nonchalantly. “I know it seems like he kicked you out or whatever, but honestly we don’t have anyone with the power to do that. Democracy, remember? Except we don’t have a president because that would give some kind of imbalance to the people, yadda yadda yadda, I don’t fucking know, you’re going to have to ask Enj--”

“Dude.” Grantaire interrupted, his lips pulling up into a smile. “Is there a point?”

Bahorel laughed thunderously, destroying the peaceful silence of the Parisian night. “Yeah, man, I’m saying that you should think about joining us for real. I think it’d be good to have someone who doesn’t agree with whatever Enjolras says. Take him down a few notches. Don’t think you’re not welcome there just because Chief had a temper tantrum.”

“Are we really welcome anywhere?” Grantaire replied vaguely. “I’ll think about it.”

“My man.” Bahorel stepped closer, hitting R on the shoulder once. “If you decide this is a thing you want to do, I’m usually at the Musain around 3. Afternoons.” He took a step back, taking a brief pause as he crined. “Word of advice, though? Try not to shit talk Xavier to a group called _Les Amis de l’Ex_.”

Well, shit. “I’ll keep it in mind.”

Bahorel was gone right after, slipping through the pocket he created and disappearing, leaving Grantaire alone with the damp trash bins and his thoughts.

The first thought he had was that he needed a drink. An entire bottle of dark liquor kind of drink, not just a glass. In fact, he was going to break every glass in his shitty apartment out of protest.

He climbed his stairs at a changing pace -- sometimes sluggishly, with the wall supporting him more than anything, and sometimes quickly with a rush of anxiety, taking two at a time. He didn’t know what time it was that Bahorel dropped him off at, but judging by the silent halls of his building, it was late.

He knew he wasn’t alone as soon as he shut the door of his apartment, but instead of feeling frightened, he just sighed dejectedly into the quiet black. He flicked on his main light and tossed his keys on the floor carelessly, shouldering past the Suit who waited for him without even a glance. He opened a cabinet and pulled out a glass bottle that sloshed too much and-- _shit_. There was hardly two shots left.

“This is the greatest representation of my life thus yet,” he said aloud, shaking the almost empty bottle in the direction of his unwanted guest, his back still turned to them as he rummaged through his kitchen. When he came up empty handed, he leaned back his head with a sigh. “I’ve been thinking about the glass-half-empty versus the glass-half-full debacle, and I’ve officially decided that it’s just not for me. Nothing is half anything, not without precision that just doesn’t come from happenstance. Michelangelo’s David can’t be half beautiful just as I can’t be half ugly. Don’t say anything to that; that wasn’t me searching for mindless affirmation. I know what I am, and other people’s opinions stopped moving me when I was, like, sixteen. Just like you can’t half convince me something, I can’t be half convinced of anything -- each word cancels itself out, but our language has evolved to where that’s acceptable. Like, _literally_ be being changed to figuratively. Or _like_ replacing our _um’s_. Is it because we’re trying to be more optimistic about this world? I couldn’t tell you, not definitely, at least. I think that’s the reason.” He untwisted the bottle as he spoke, his eyes still trained everywhere _but_ the Suit. The liquor burned as it went down, but he ignored it expertly as he spoke. “But what does my opinion matter in comparison to the millions of people who use contradictions like that? _Change with the times, Grantaire_ , they’d say. _Adaption is the key to humanity_. Is it? I was under the impression that the key is love. That old saying -- what is it? Love sets us apart from the animals. I can’t say I entirely agree with that, either, but I do agree that love is more important than half promises or half conventions. Humanity itself is a contradiction. Nothing is forever. We die just as our grammar.” He sat the now empty bottle down, pushing it with his fingers until it toppled over the edge of his counter and into his open trashbin. “When people think of me when I finally die, it will be neither half-full nor half-empty. If I’m lucky, it’ll be nothing. If I’m not, they won’t insult me with bullshit sentiments.”

“It’s lovely to meet you, too, Grantaire,” the Suit replied after his tirade. This one was quick. Usually at least three minutes of awkward silence followed his obvious time killing scheme, but this voice seemed unphased as ever. He twisted his neck to look at them.

“My God, you are an angel,” he nearly yelped, seeing a full bottle of alcohol cradled in the stranger’s hands. It was clear, but he wasn’t going to be picky. He turned himself all the way around, smiling broadly.

The woman laughed, and the sound nearly made made him pause, it sounding like a melody of crystal tinkling together. She placed the glass bottle onto the counter, but didn’t relinquish her hold on it. It was more of a bargaining chip than a peace offering, but after the past few hours, Grantaire was beyond the point of caring.

“I’m sure you know I didn’t come here to bring you this,” she began gently. He nodded. Her yellow hair was pulled into a tight bun -- it seemed off putting for her soft round features. He could already tell she was different from his other handlers. “Or to talk about linguistics,” she added, not unkind. “How was your day?”

He slumped forward almost wearily, but he kept his eyes alert and steady on hers. “Would you believe me if I said uneventful?”

“No,” she smiled. Her hands untwisted the cap of the bottle and she raised her eyebrows expectantly. “Do you have glasses?”

“I’ve decided to ignore their existence today, actually,” he quipped. She accepted this and slid the bottle over to him, which he accepted as graciously as he could.

“It doesn’t sound like you had an uneventful day, then,” she mused. Her warmness was meant to be comforting, he knew, but really it just made his fingers twitch. “It’s American,” she continued, her eyes glancing at the bottle in his hands. She laughed again when he made a face. “It’s called Everclear. You’re supposed to mix it with water because of the potency, but--”

He already took a swig before she could finish her warning, and the burning incited a coughing fit to mingle with his laughter. “Holy shit,” he almost wheezed, holding the bottle back to stare at it in awe. “This is like paint thinner. What the hell?”

“To make it last longer,” she laughed with him, and Grantaire suspected that her kindness wasn’t just a facade to get him to talk, she just really was. That, or she was doing an excellent job.

“You aren’t half bad for a Suit,” he hummed once the fire in his throat settled. “Minus the whole breaking and entering thing.”

“It’s policy. Something about reminding people of thei-- _our_ dominance.” She waved her hand dismissively, but her smile slowly faded as she recognized Grantaire’s skepticism at her stumble.

“Noted. I won’t tell your bosses I heard it from you.” Still keeping his eyes on her as much as possible, he reached into the cabinet beneath him to pull out a glass. He hesitated before sitting another next to it, side stepping to the sink. “What’s your name?”

“Fantine,” she offered as he filled the glasses with a little water. “And I would prefer it if you didn’t tell anyone about this conversation at all, actually.”

His eyebrows shot up, topping the water off with the Everclear. He scooted one glass over to her with the tips of his fingers. “Am I allowed to ask why?”

“I would like to be as transparent as possible with you, Grantaire,” she replied softly, her eyes melting into something that looked a lot like pity. He dropped his gaze to his glass to avoid it. “I know you haven’t had much of a choice since they’ve found you, and I don’t want you to feel that way with me.”

“You keep saying _they_ ,” he pointed out, drumming his fingers on the counter. “Aren’t you one of them?”

“Technically, yes.” This caused him to look back at her, and while her eyes were still heavy with sympathy, his curiosity overrode the desire to walk away from it. “But no more than you. The Coalition isn’t the only organization with spies.” She tapped her nose almost teasingly, and Grantaire was too stunned to respond right away, so she continued. “I know they promised your freedom if you did this, but you and I both know that’s not true, don’t we? Especially now that you’ve done their so-called _one time only_ deal. How much information did you get from that, exactly?” Grantaire grimaced, and it was enough of an answer for her. “You’ll always need them, and they know that. But you know what else they know? _They_ need _you_.”

Grantaire knew the initial promise had been bullshit -- he didn’t need Fantine to tell him that -- but hearing it aloud made anger stir in the pit of his stomach. The world was fucking cruel and unfair and he thought he was long past accepting that, but hearing someone confirm it outside of his own head was perhaps something he could have gone without. He downed half his glass. The water did help the strong taste, just like she promised.

“I’m not smart enough to piece together what you’re hinting at here, so you’re going to have to spell it out for me,” he explained curtly after a few beats.

“I’m saying we can give them as little information as possible for as long as we can. They’ll be angry, of course, but they won’t do anything to you. You’re too important to them,” Fantine replied patiently. “You can protect them.”

Grantaire barked a laugh before he could stop himself, the loud sound breaking the calm silence they had created. He shook his head with mock amusement, sipping at his drink. “That’s a great rose-colored plan you’ve got there, Fantine, but I don’t think you know who you’re talking to right now.”

“I do,” she assured him gently. “I’ve been with you since the beginning.”

It didn’t hit him instantly, but soon his eyes widened as he remembered the girl with chlorophyll in her veins. There had been a voice over the intercom that was unlike the others -- soft, and calm, and kind, and _Fantine’s_.

“You’ve done just as much shitty things as they have,” he accused, and he only felt a little guilty when she flinched. “Why should I trust you? How do I know this isn’t some trap to fuck me up even more with your stupid fucking Coalition and--”

“Because I have a daughter,” she interjected forcefully. Her voice was hard, and so was her face, and she looked like a completely different person before she softened again. “Cosette. She’s the best… creature and human alike that this Earth could ever ask for. She’s beautiful. Brilliant. Kind. _Mutant_ , like you. And like you, her power hurts people. But she’s _good_.” Fantine’s eyes were as intense as her words. “Just like you, R.”

“You’ve hurt just as many people as I have,” Grantaire objected, shaking his head before finishing his drink. He relieved her of the untouched one instead of refilling his. “That doesn’t seem like you care a whole lot about Mutant Rights.”

“We all do things-- we make _sacrifices_ to protect the ones we love,” Fantine countered fiercely. “I’m aware of the blood on my hands, just as I’m aware that my fate isn’t any better than the ones I’ve hurt. But if any of what I’ve done can protect my Cosette, then it’s worth it. If any of what I’ve done can protect _you_ , and others like you, then it’s worth it.”

“Everyone wants to be a _fucking_ martyr,” Grantaire mumbled, but he could feel his resistance dissolve with the slump of his shoulders. Slowly, he sat down his glass. “I’m guessing she’s a member of the friends club or whatever.”

“Yes,” Fantine sighed, relief flooding out of her voice. “Yes, she is, and if you could--”

“Be a double-double agent,” he snorted. He ran a heavy hand through his thick mop of hair and released a shuddering sigh, allowing another bout of silence to blanket over them.

He didn’t want to do this. Being a spy in the first place wasn’t what he _did_ \-- it wasn’t his deal with the Suits. He was only supposed to be a contact they pulled in whenever a pesky Mutant needed their DNA rewritten, but they had been the one to throw his non existent contract out the window when they told him to do this in the first place. He looked at Fantine warily, her kind face twisted in agony he knew well, and -- _shit_.

“I’m going to regret this, aren’t I?” he asked rhetorically, his eyes casting to the heavens for a moment before he heaved another sigh. “Fine. Yeah, fine, I’ll go back and babysit. Whatever.”

Her smile almost made it worth it. _Almost_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the lack of romance, friends, I had to do some heavy world building first. Patience!
> 
> I think this is going to have three chapters? Maybe four. They'll all be more or less the same length as this one (probably more).
> 
> Say hi on [tumblr](http://enjolrasrouge.tumblr.com)!


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “They’re doing another protest next week,” Grantaire told Fantine one evening, resting his head in his hands lazily. “Signs with slogans and everything. The council is formally introducing the Mutant Registration Act, and they’re not too happy about it.”
> 
> “Are you going?” she asked.
> 
> “I don’t want to die, so no,” Grantaire snorted. “It’s not like the others.”
> 
> “That you also didn’t attend.”
> 
> “I think the thing that everyone forgets is that I have a life outside of this fucking disaster.”

#  PART TWO____________________________

On the outside, the Musain paraded as a normal café. Tables and chairs were scattered uselessly on the patio -- no one was ever sitting in them. The inside, too, didn’t look like anything special. The downstairs walls were covered with massive chalkboards, all of them listing the seemingly endless options the restaurant had to offer. The upstairs had even more tables, those of which were almost always occupied. The food was subpar at best, the coffee was usually sludge if the wrong barista was on duty, and although the wine could be counted on for its goodness, it was the people dining that made the Musain special. They were all Mutant.

Grantaire had always been aware of the Musain, just like all Mutants. No one really knew who told them about it, it had just always been general knowledge among the community, whether they aligned themselves with it or not. Some rumors said that Professor X himself instilled the knowledge on the masses, that every major city or province had a Musain of their own. Others insisted a Mutant that could control memory was the culprit.

Grantaire just thought it was because he had never met a Parisian Mutant who would shut up about it.

Bahorel was there, just as he said he would be. He sat at the bar -- rather, he was slumped over it, his large hands dangling onto the other side, where Feuilly stood looking at him with an unamused expression, a cup of coffee in hand and an apron tied around his waist.

“I’m going to pour this on you,” he was saying, his mouth pinched in annoyance. It was him who caught sight of Grantaire first, and his face immediately melted into a smile. “R!” he greeted happily, as if he hadn’t just been threatening to give someone second degree burns. “I didn’t know you came here.”

“I don’t usually,” Grantaire replied, sliding into the stool next to Bahorel. He took note of the apron with _Musain_ stitched in flowing script with a quirked eyebrow. “You work here?”

“What, you expect me to make a living in that place?” Feuilly scoffed. “I’m only a revolutionary by night, dude. I’m Batman minus the millions of dollars.”

“Are you here because of why I think you’re here?” Bahorel asked, his voice thick with sleep and muffled because he was face down on the counter.

“Insert vague answer here in response to your vague question,” Grantaire replied with a smirk, eyes still on Feuilly. “Can I get, like, the biggest cup of coffee you have? And then three more. I’m ninety percent sure I’m nursing the most brutal hangover of my life right now.” Feuilly cocked a questioning eyebrow, and Grantaire shrugged. “American booze, man.”

“Weak,” came Bahorel’s muffled insult.

“Everclear.”

“I take it back.”

With a laugh, Feuilly sat down the cup of coffee meant for Bahorel and went off to make Grantaire’s order.

“So you all have lives outside of planning an uprising?” Grantaire asked when Bahorel lifted his head, nearly dunking his nose into his coffee.

“Of course we do,” he replied with a snort. He made a face when he sipped his drink. “We need to have something waiting for us when we annihilate those sons of bitches.”

“Your optimism is as admirable as your practicality. So, what, you pick them up one by one like a bus driver?”

“Nah.” He winched again when he tried to drink his coffee, sitting down the cup in defeat as he reached for the sugar, pouring in way more than the average person needed. “Ever see a bunch of kids play Red Rover?”

“You’re shitting me,” Grantaire laughed, nodding in thanks when Feuilly sat down his large cup in front of him. “Jesus. You transport them through time and space holding hands. Are you sure you aren’t living in some weird after school special?”

“Don’t recall after school specials having life or death situations, but yeah, maybe I am,” Bahorel replied, sliding his eyes over to R. “Don’t tell me _that’s_ what’s gonna change your mind.”

“It depends on where you thought my mind was when I walked in,” Grantaire chirped, wincing at his own scalding hot coffee. “Because now I am absolutely in.”

“You’re kind of a dick.”

“Thank you.”

“Ugh, stop flirting and pay me already,” Feuilly huffed, but his lips were twitching playfully.

After that, Grantaire learned that when they weren’t working on anything sensitive, they huddled together on the third floor of the Musain, an empty room with only a few chairs. It felt like the group despised anything comfortable just as much as they despised oppression, but he never had trouble making himself at home in places that weren’t his. This was the only place he was welcomed for a while -- the bunker was never spoken of around him, nor was an invitation granted. He knew he needed to get one -- for both Fantine and to tide over the Suits, who were growing increasingly impatient with him -- but he wasn’t in any particular rush.

The first time he sat in a meeting, Enjolras hadn’t even seemed to notice his presence, nor did he notice the second or third. It wasn’t until one of his ridiculous notions made Grantaire laugh out loud during the fourth that those stormy blue eyes fell on him again.

“If you don’t take us seriously, why do you keep showing up?” the blond demanded, interrupting the entire meeting to do so.

“You know how they say you can’t look away from a train wreck?” Grantaire had asked, leaning forward in the chair he had swiped from another Mutant when they weren’t looking. Bossuet elbowed him to shut him up, but as always, to no avail. “This is my train wreck.”

Enjolras hadn’t found it as funny as Grantaire did.

Mutants came in and out of those meetings -- that were really just held to gather more interest in the cause -- and it was easy to figure out who was in the core group from that.

Marius Pontmercy was… something else. That was all Grantaire could think of to describe him with. He almost seemed as though he had stumbled into a meeting by accident and had been too polite to tell anyone his mistake, and kept returning so no one would be clued into his offense. His hair was always windblown, even if the air outside was still, and his pale cheeks had a permanent flush, like he had just said something embarrassing. His mutation wasn’t obvious, and Grantaire hadn’t figured it out yet -- he couldn’t just _ask_ ; that was rude, plus it would leave an opening for someone to ask about _his_ mutation -- but Marius was just as much as part of the group as anyone else.

Cosette was just as Fantine had described her -- beautiful, smart, and kind. Marius explained -- translated, really -- that her voice had siren-esque abilities and she could take away the free will of any person she wished and replace it with her own. The thing with Cosette was that she didn’t wish that on anyone and took a vow of silence when she was a mere seven years old. She never spoke, instead opting for sign language, written word, and her many expressive reactions for communication. Grantaire didn’t think it mattered much -- he was sure anyone in their right minds would do whatever the girl wanted, regardless if she used her voice or hands.

She didn’t seem aware that her mother worked behind the scenes with the Suits. In fact, she didn’t seem aware of Fantine at all. She mentioned her father in passing nearly daily, but never her mother. It made Grantaire suspicious -- he would have to bring it up to Fantine during one of their rendezvous and see if he could trap her in a lie.

This whole thing was making him paranoid on top of everything else.

Éponine was a beautiful, fierce woman Grantaire had already met before his life went to complete shit -- he was just as shocked to see her there as she was to see him. She was almost as cynical about the whole organization as he was, but unlike him, she had productive things to offer, things that could even stop the never-ceasing Enjolras in his tracks. Her skin was a rich ochre brown, which alone left Grantaire itching for his pastels, but there was a constant swirl of golden lines running down her exposed arms. Sometimes they reached out towards her face like branches stretching in the wind, their tendrils and squiggles licking at her cheeks. Grantaire had spent more than enough time staring at her on the nights they were out with another set of friends to know the lines were an almost ever shifting latitude and longitude of a map. Whether or not the map was of this world was still up in the air. Regardless, it was nice to have a somewhat familiar face.

Gavroche, Éponine’s brother, was an elusive little shit who drove Grantaire up a wall just as much as he endeared him. He was only found when he wanted to be, or when his sharp laughter clued the rest of the Amis into where he was, though they still couldn’t look at him. He was able to remain in the corner of people’s peripheral vision, but it was anyone’s guess if it was a mutation or if he was just fast. When he wasn’t skirting around the room, he was hanging off of Bahorel’s bicep, or crawling underneath the table to tie Courfeyrac’s shoelaces together. Gavroche, like his sister, and despite his age, was valuable in his own way -- for a kid, he knew more about what was happening in the streets than most adults.

The last of the core group of Mutant revolutionaries was Jean Prouvaire -- or Jehan, as they liked to be called. They were neither man nor woman, Mutant nor Man, solid or gas. They were the soft, yet mighty voice of those with mutations that couldn’t hide like the rest, who couldn't protect themselves by being inconspicuous, who weren't impacted by the Mutant Registration Act because their entire being let everyone around them know what they were. Most of these Mutants aligned themselves with the Mutant and Proud extremists from having no other choice, but Jehan wasn’t like most Mutants.

They were a swarm of self. They had the ability to separate their body by the molecules, and when they were especially pleased, the atom. They wore clothes because of fashion instead of practicality; the brightly colored and crudely mismatched strips of fabric were unable to hold them together, but were instead held together by them. It was possible for them to piece themselves back together into a whole form, but the problem with that, they explained, was that they didn’t _want_ to be anything other than buzzing pieces. They waxed poetic on the merits of being unconventional, but Grantaire had a feeling they just enjoyed making people -- Mutants and Non alike -- unsettled.

Courfeyrac, upon Grantaire meeting Jehan, had grabbed his shoulders. “I am so enamored with them,” the man proclaimed intensely, unashamed of saying it in front of the person it was about.

“Good for you, man,” Grantaire laughed, carefully removing himself from his grip. Remembering that he didn’t like to be touched, Courfeyrac immediately stepped away.

Les Amis de l’Ex were amazing. Grantaire wasn’t going to dispute that -- they were amazing. They were naive, idealistic nerds with their heads stuck in the clouds, who were absolutely going to get themselves killed whether Grantaire protected them from the Suits or not, but that didn’t mean he thought they _deserved_ it. He actually enjoyed the meetings in the Musain -- as ridiculously hopeful as they were -- and while he couldn’t agree with what they were about, he had to admit he loved who they were, both together and separate.

Joly and Bossuet became two people he could call friends, possibly the best Grantaire had ever known. They never asked for the specific reason for the gloves, and Bossuet had a knack of knowing when to push a drink towards R or when to pull it away. Joly laughed enthusiastically at almost all of Grantaire’s shitty jokes and supplied an endless amount of shitty jokes of his own in return, keeping their relationship light and fun and everything he looked for in friendships.

To keep himself entertained during the business part of the meetings, Grantaire liked to see if he could push Enjolras to his boiling point again -- pun absolutely intended. He was mostly ignored save for a steely glare, but there were times he was almost successful, like the time Enjolras opened the floor to suggestions on where to begin their stride for change.

Grantaire, as nonchalantly as he could given the way his lips already twitched madly with a smirk, asked if anyone had thought to just _ask_ the government for equality.

Enjolras’ eyeballs literally burst into flame, but nothing more.

It still made his week.

As for the other party he was supposedly working for… Well. Grantaire had a gift for talking in circles. His favorite defense mechanism was making the person on the other end of his one sided conversations hope so badly for its end that they don’t pick up on the lack of information until they rid themselves of him. It was his tactic with the Suits. He met with them once a month to talk about what he pretended not to know, only giving them as little information as he could.

They had a file on Combeferre. There wasn’t much in it -- just that he was a known accomplice to the Mutant rebels. They had his demeanor down to a T, describing him as calm, collected, and logical. They didn’t know his mutation -- Grantaire hadn’t given that to them yet, and he wasn’t sure if he ever would considering what some people, even the ones in the Anti-Coalition, would do for a living, breathing super computer. At the end of the file, in bold letters, it read: _Approach with caution. Extremely dangerous_.

With the exception of Cosette and Gavroche, all of the Les Amis de l’Ex had a file. Some were thicker than others -- Bahorel’s spilled over into two separate folders, and Jehan’s was close behind him; Éponine’s was only a few leafs a paper thick, and in a different pile altogether, her suspected loyalty with another, less activist centered group called Patron-Minette. Some folders only had names, some had aliases and blurry, blown up security pictures identifying them. They all had the same thing at the end, however -- even mutation-less Joly.

_Approach with caution. Extremely dangerous._

The only one that was starkly different from the rest was Enjolras. He had a file, but that was it. It was just an empty manila folder with _leader?_ scrawled in sharpie, and Grantaire didn’t have to see the picture stapled on the inside to know that it was Enjolras. He remembered not being relieved, oddly enough, by their lack of information. The picture they had of him showed him standing on top of a newspaper stand with figurative fire in his eyes, his jaw locked and jutted fiercely, and the hand that wasn’t supporting his tall frame on a lamp post was curled into a tight fist. It was the most perfect representation of any person Grantaire had ever seen. No, they didn’t know his name, nor his mutation, but they saw more than enough every time they opened the bare folder.

Written in red in the margins of the folder, the assessment they made was simple. _Kill on sight._

Eight months passed without incident, but he knew the line he walked grew thinner each day.

“They’re doing another protest next week,” he told Fantine one evening, resting his head in his hands lazily. “Signs with slogans and everything. The council is formally introducing the Mutant Registration Act, and they’re not too happy about it.”

“Are you going?” she asked. They had developed quite the relationship, but it was still… business casual at best.

“I don’t want to die, so no,” Grantaire snorted. When she raised her eyebrows, he shrugged. “It’s not like the others.”

“That you also didn’t attend.”

“I think the thing that everyone forgets is that I have a life outside of this fucking disaster,” Grantaire retorted, though his words weren’t sharp. It was just a fact. “Yeah, I didn’t attend those because they were useless and I had better things to do, sue me. But at least they were doing them in Mutant territory instead of in front of the capital building, Jesus.”

“You don’t think it’s brave?” she asked, tilting her head. “I do. Putting their own safety on the line for people who can’t do the same is usually seen as admirable.”

“I think it’s stupid,” Grantaire mumbled. “What does being a martyr ever do for you? Sure, you get songs written about you, maybe your own chapter in a history book. Shakespeare supposedly immortalized someone in Sonnet 18, but what goods a poem when you’re dead?”

There was a momentary flash of anger in her eyes, but it quickly dimmed into nothing but pity. “I can see why you’d feel that way,” she finally said after a pregnant pause.

“C’mon, Fantine, we have a good thing going. Don’t ruin it with therapy.” He waved her away, causing her to sigh in response. So he leaned forward and rested his chin in his hand, giving her the most pleasant smile he could manage. “Unless you wanna talk about why Cosette doesn’t seem to know you exist.”

Fantine froze for a beat, the only thing changing about her exasperated face was the slight widening of her eyes, before she cleared her throat and shook away her surprise. She swallowed, and he could tell she was being careful about her expression. “You didn’t tell her about me, did you?”

“No, I don’t talk to her all that much, to be honest,” Grantaire replied. “But when I do she mentions her dad at least, like, once. Which is lot since… Like I said. We don’t talk much.”

Fantine drew a breath, holding it for a few seconds, and she reached for R’s half empty glass of Everclear. She exhaled into it and just held the rim to her lips for a couple beats before she sat it down again. “I haven’t seen Cosette since she was three years old.”

“Okay…” Grantaire drawled, his eyebrows furrowing.

“I put her in the protection of an old friend of mine, who she calls her father. There were… circumstances out of my control, and it was the only way I could keep her safe. Remember when I told you about making sacrifices for the people you love?” She frowned, and her eyes dropped to the fingers fiddling with her jacket in her lap. “That was my first one.”

“Why don’t you just talk to her now?” Grantaire pressed. He liked Fantine, he did. He just wasn’t sure if she could be trusted quite yet -- he had already risked enough for her, and now he wanted to know who exactly he was doing this for. Because it certainly wasn’t himself.

“Because there was a reason I gave her up in the first place.” She hesitated for a moment, watching him carefully before emitting a resigned sigh. She did that a lot. “I… got too deeply involved in the coalition.”

“Wow, yeah, I can’t relate to that at all,” he replied sarcastically.

“Perhaps you can,” she shot back, her face hardening into a glare. “I did what was best for my child, and I try to live my life in a way that benefits her, too. It wasn’t easy, but what’s right usually isn’t.”

“So why all the secrecy?” Grantaire asked. “I mean, besides the fact that you’re lying about who you are to the anti-Mutants and company -- how does lying to Cosette protect her? I don’t think she’s going to be the first one knocking on your boss’ door to let them know you’re a traitor.”

“I didn’t start Mutant advocacy because my child was Mutant; I was doing this before I got pregnant,” Fantine replied. Her voice was tight; Grantaire could tell that she didn’t want to talk about this. “I started working with the Coalition when I was twenty, and I had Cosette when I was twenty-two. The Coalition-- Once you’re in, you’re in. They watch their members just as hard as they watch their known Mutants. If I make just the slightest mistake, if I even pen a single letter to her, they’ll see it. I’ve worked too hard to keep her out of their sights to let my own selfishness put her in their system. The only reason I’m able to talk to you without being overly careful is because I pushed to be the leading agent on this case, and even then I have to look over my shoulder every five minutes.”

“So quit,” he supplied, but he could feel his resolve alongside his suspicions dwindle. “You can do that. You’re not Mutant, so--”

“Like I said, I’m too deep,” she replied with a small, sad smile. “I’m fighting the same war as Cosette’s group, and a war can’t be won with soldiers alone.”

“Right.” He didn’t like that she was referring to the _Les Amis_ as soldiers -- they were just kids -- but he didn’t know how to dispute it. It wasn’t an unfair label; he was sure he’d heard Enjolras and Courfeyrac say the same one in regards to themselves, but still. Soldiers died.

“So… The protest,” she brought up casually again, lifting one of her thin eyebrows. “Still definitely not going?”

“Still definitely not going,” he confirmed.

>>>*<<<

He really did plan on missing the protest, just as he had sat out the others. Even as he dragged his feet on the sidewalk, he tried to think of a million other ways he could avoid this, but Joly -- the bastard -- had caught him in a vulnerable, drunken, overly friendly moment the night before. A bet had been lost -- Bossuet, it turned out, _could_ balance more than six olives on his head -- and Grantaire was a lot of things, but he wasn’t someone who broke his word, or allowed penance to go unpaid. He’d been grasping at straws since he was fourteen to keep just a shred of goodness, and that unfortunately had been the only straw left.

So he was in the freezing December air at a god awful hour in the morning -- breaking the _law_ \-- to deliver three cups of piping hot coffee to the people who were supposed to be his friends. Assholes.

“You’re late,” Bossuet teased when he finally reached the protest. As expected, it was a less than enthusiastic turnout. He wondered how Enjolras was taking it.

“Take your coffee and spare me,” Grantaire grumbled, pushing the cup he had been balancing between his arm and chest towards his friend. “I still think you cheated, and you’re a traitor for doing so.”

“The face is a part of the head, R,” Joly interjected happily, taking his own cup as he leaned his whole weight on his cane with his other hand. “How were we supposed to know you only assumed he’d be using the crown?” He grinned, and it was incredibly difficult to be annoyed with Joly when he looked like that, but it was also below freezing and Grantaire was hungover. “What took you so long, anyways? We started two hours ago. Are you sick?”

“If I wasn’t before, I am definitely now,” Grantaire nodded, placing the last steaming cup on his cheek. “Jesus. What kind of monster makes you come out this early, in this weather, to just wave a bunch of signs around?”

“That’s enough of that.” Musichetta appeared, plucking the cup that had been warming Grantaire’s nose and cheeks with a smug smile. “We’re doing it on an important day, so lots of important people will see. Don’t you get tired of having the same argument over and over?”

“It’s just going to make them angry,” Grantaire sighed.

“That’s the whole fucking point,” Chetta chirped with a shrug. “We shouldn’t be the only angry ones. They wanna inconvenience us? We’ll inconvenience them right back.”

“Are you staying?” Bossuet asked, quirking an eyebrow over his steaming cup of coffee.

“Please stay!” Joly insisted before Grantaire could respond, bouncing on the balls of his feet excitedly. “You’ve never come to one of these, so you can finally see what we do!”

“It’s six degrees and five in the morning,” Grantaire laughed, shooting his friends an incredulous look. “I’m a man of my word and I lost a bet, so I’ve paid for my crimes of making terrible choices, and now I’m off to sleep before I meet up with a group of friends who are infinitely saner than you lot. Combeferre is fantastic at debriefing every boring detail of these shows, so it’ll be just like I never left once I listen to that.” He shoved his gloved hands in his pockets and started to back away, but he was stopped by Joly’s crestfallen expression. “Don’t give me that look, man, c’mon. You’re better off without me anyways.”

“But you’re our D’Artagnan!” Joly objected.

“He’s right,” Bossuet nodded sagely. “You did agree to be our D’Artagnan.”

“ _And_ you only had two drinks, so you can’t blame it on being drunk,” Musichetta interjected with an over the top sickly sweet smile.

“Jesus,” Grantaire laughed slightly, and he really did want to leave. Something in his gut told had told him this was a bad idea from the start, but it was getting increasingly difficult to tell these three no.

“We could switch to The Wizard of Oz gang if that sweetens the pot for you,” Bossuet smiled.

“I call Dorothy!” Joly exclaimed with a laugh.

“Which one would you be, Grantaire?” Bossuet tilted his head. “The coward or the heartless?”

“Heartless Tin Man, probably,” Musichetta pouted.

Grantaire rolled his eyes. “Okay, guys, you’re hilarious, but--”

“Bossuet, I was just discussing something with Feuilly, and I was--” Enjolras appeared next to Grantaire, his focus on a stack of pamphlets he was organizing in his hands. Somehow, in the dark of the early morning, he managed to glow. Grantaire was just as annoyed as he was in awe -- how beautiful could one person be? When Enjolras looked up, his eyes landed on R, and the blond blinked rapidly, as if he was unsure of whether or not what he was seeing was real, or if he just had something in his eye. “Oh. Grantaire.”

“In the flesh,” he replied, raising his eyebrows with some amusement.

Enjolras’ acutely surprised expression hardened. “What are you doing here?”

“I lost a bet,” Grantaire told him cheerfully. He spread his arms to gesture around the alley the Amis had declared their hide out. “This is my punishment.”

He watched Enjolras’ fingers clench a little tighter on his pamphlets, his full lips forming a thin line unhappily. Before he could respond -- to probably banish Grantaire from his presence forever -- Joly intervened.

“The punishment was the coffee,” he explained, lifting his cup as proof.

“He volunteered to stay,” Bossuet continued.

“On his own accord, without any manipulation from us,” Musichetta finished, patting Grantaire once on the back with a show of pride.

Grantaire could have killed them.

Enjolras seemed to consider this for a beat, his steel blue eyes roaming Grantaire’s form, and he must have been satisfied with what he saw, because his chin raised and he gave an accepting huff after a beat. “Yes, well. Good. I’m glad.” Grantaire had to hand it to him, it only sounded _slightly_ forced. “You can see that we’re not all talk, then. It’s always good to have more bodies.”

“Wouldn’t want the mortician feeling too lonely,” Grantaire agreed.

Bossuet stepped between them before he could catch sight of Enjolras’ surely re-soured expression, a gentle hand pushing the other man away. “What was it you wanted to ask?”

When they stepped away, Grantaire turned a glare to his two remaining friends. “What the hell was that?” he asked.

“I could ask you the same thing. Why do you always talk to him like that?” Chetta shot back. She rested her chin on the top of her travel cup and her dark eyes narrowed as she studied Grantaire with pursed lips. “It’s almost like you _want_ him to hate you.”

“I don’t,” Grantaire objected, and it wasn’t a lie. He wanted Enjolras to like him just as much as he wanted everyone else to like him. Which was to say a lot, and not at all. “I just think he needs to be reminded about reality every now and then, that’s all.”

“Every now and then meaning every time he talks to you.”

“He doesn’t talk to me much, so.” He dragged a hand through his hair, pulling on the ends before rolling his eyes. He took a backwards step away from them. “Anyways, I need to get going. I can hear my warm bed’s siren calls from here. Have fun being arrested.”

“Wait, R, just-- Just stay, okay?” Joly requested. “Just this one time to really see this, and only for a little while. You can leave after.”

Grantaire paused and, _shit_ , he really did want to go home and sleep, but it was damn near impossible to say no to Joly when he looked like that. He had a sinking suspicion that the other man knew, which is why he was pulling the face at that moment, a face that brightened significantly when he released an annoyed huff of defeat.

“Fine. But any sign of danger, and I’m out,” he swore, raising his eyebrows to make point of his seriousness.

“You’re so negative, R,” Joly laughed happily, his voice fond. “Nothing’s gonna happen other than a few old people getting mad, c’mon.”

Already feeling a twinge of regret, Grantaire followed his friends closer inside of the circle of Mutant Rights activists. Everyone seemed just as surprised as Enjolras to see him there, but they all hid it light-years better than he did. Éponine had actually smiled -- as much as Éponine could smile, anyways.

“Nice to have another voice of reason if things get out of hand,” she greeted.

“Gav here?” he asked, his eyes scanning the small crowd uselessly. The kid was only seen when he wanted to be seen.

“Nah, left him at home asleep with Zel. He won’t be too happy with me, but…” She trailed off with a shrug.

She didn’t have to explain -- Grantaire knew enough. There was a big chance at least half of the group, the ones who weren’t fast enough, would be arrested for breaking curfew alone. The rest would probably have warrants out for their arrest under bullshit charges of assault if things even mildly got out of control, and the odds were already leaning in that direction. There was something in the air, a spark of excitement and restlessness, and throwing in a kid with a hunger for things like that wasn’t a good recipe.

“Smart,” he supplied with a nod.

A golden tendril flickered across her nose and she swatted at it absently, and Grantaire’s eyes went to her neck, where the waving latitudes and longitudes over her skin shifted almost nervously.

“Can I ask you something?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Feel free to like, punch me if it’s out of line.”

“Go ahead…” she allowed cautiously.

“The map,” he gestured towards her neck, her only visible piece of skin. “What is it?”

“God, that’s, like, the least inappropriate question, what the hell. You made me anxious for no fucking reason,” she huffed, but he grinned when he saw her shoulders relax in relief. She held out an arm and rolled up her sleeve, revealing more of the golden markings on her brown skin, illuminated by the dim streetlamp next to them. They swirled, as if dormant unless being looked at, and then settled after a few minutes. “It’s whatever I want it to be,” she explained, and again the lines shifted into something else. Grantaire recognized it as the street they were on now. “It doesn’t go away, and I can kind of... feel it or whatever, like it’s another layer of skin. I’ve gotten good at keeping it off my face, but it gets annoying sometimes.”

The lines expanded, and some terrain became visible, rolling over her arm in small waves. It took Grantaire a moment to realize that it symbolized _people_ , one of the biggest clusters being where the Amis huddled then. “It comes in handy,” she finished, rolling her sleeve back down. She eyed him carefully. “Most people ask about it right away.”

“It’s none of my business,” he shrugged, flexing his gloved hands instinctively. He should have gone for a more insulated pair, but the leather had kind of become his thing with the group. He didn’t want _purposely_ disappoint people -- that skill came unwillingly. “But it’s-- I’m something like an artist, so I really like the palette you have.”

“Something like?” she repeated, raising a brow.

“Yeah, I paint and stuff, but nothing… Worthwhile.” He scoffed. “All the feel for aesthetic and none of the talent.”

“And my skin is an aesthetic?” she asked, her voice hard, but the left corner of her mouth twitched into a small smirk.

“It’s beautiful, yeah,” he nodded, adding another nonchalant shrug. “Nature did a good job with the colors.”

“Are you hitting on me?” she demanded, taking a step away from him.

“What? Jesus, no, that’s not-- I--” he stammered, his eyes going wide. But then she gave a slight laugh and he rolled his eyes. “You’re fucking with me.”

“Yeah, dude,” she snorted before crossing her arms again, tucking her hands into her armpits to keep warm. “Anyways, thanks. I haven’t actually heard that one before.”

“What do you usually hear?” Grantaire leaned back to rest his head against the cold brick of the alley they were milling around in, waiting for the action to start -- whatever that meant. He liked Éponine. She was smart, and at times crafty. He didn’t know a lot about her, but he knew she didn’t exactly fit in with the group. Not like he didn’t fit in, but in a different way.

“That it’s helpful?” she offered, pursing her lips in thought. She shrugged after a moment. “I used to use it to watch for cops for my parents, and now I use it to watch for cops for these guys. Haven’t found much other use for it other than having the luck of never getting lost.”

“Is that why you’re here then?” he asked, gesturing around them. “Not some moral obligation?”

“I’m here because I was asked,” she sighed, and her expression started to close off. She was like that -- only offering information in bursts before going into hibernation again. He had known of her for years now and he had learned more about her in the past eight months than he had learned before, but even that wasn’t much. “I don’t really care for the whole picket shit.”

That still didn’t explain why she had agreed to show up, but Grantaire knew better than to push the topic. He let the conversation die, and she seemed grateful for it, so they stood on the edge of the group together in silence.

His eyes went to Enjolras, who was standing closer to the dead end of the alleyway more than anyone else, but still managed to look wrapped in gold. He was speaking in a hushed whisper to Combeferre, his eyes fierce and intense and the sharp angles of his face looked even more defined in the shadows. There was something about the way the man moved that commanded Grantaire’s attention in his bouts of silence, and his twitching fingers traced the blond’s outline idly on the brick wall behind him.

It took more than a few minutes of zoning out to see past the glow of his mind's eye -- Enjolras was freezing. He had on the same sweater he nearly always wore, but it didn't look like it was doing him much good. The hands that still held the pamphlets from before shook, and Grantaire doubted it was from anxiety of the upcoming protest. On closer inspection, the blond's lips were tinged purple as they literally turned blue. If anyone else noticed, they didn’t say anything, and it was probably because the stubborn blond would tell them off for pointing out he was mortal.

Grantaire pushed himself off the wall before he could stop himself, quickly shedding his jean jacket and following it with his zip up hoodie. He pushed it into a surprised Enjolras’ chest, who fumbled with the glossy papers in his hands.

“What are you doing?” he hissed, taking a quick step away.

“You’re cold, aren’t you?” Grantaire asked with a roll of his eyes, attempting to shrug back on the jean jacket over his jumper. “The cops are going to hear your chattering teeth from miles away before the council meeting even starts, so--”

“Why do you have so many jackets?” Enjolras asked, cautiously taking the still extended hoodie. He sounded suspicious, like Grantaire could manage to pull off some devious plan with nothing but his endless layers of clothes.

He smiled at the thought. “Just a comfort thing. I think the question is why you _don’t_ have as many jackets as I do. You’ve been planning this thing for months.”

“I came from the bunker,” Enjolras mumbled, slowly slipping on the thick jacket Grantaire had given him. It was way too big for his skinny frame, and the fabric almost swallowed his entire torso when he zipped it, but R did hear a slight sigh of relief. _Fuck_ , he looked adorable. What the hell. Grantaire had half a mind to take the coat back. “I was there all week and I--” He shook his head, angling his face away from Grantaire, but even in the shadows he could see the top of his cheeks turn a vague shade of pink. “Sometimes I forget what season it is.”

His fingers peeked out from the too long sleeves to bring the hood to rest tighter around his neck, and Grantaire felt his eyes widen at a flipping in his chest. _No_. He swallowed before taking a step back, only to stumble over the end of Joly’s cane.

“Oh! Sorry, R!” Joly apologized quickly, raising his cane to support the other man at the small of his back to guide him to balance again.

Enjolras had taken a step forward, his arms outstretched as if he intended to catch Grantaire himself, but something else had caught his attention. His eyes snapped ahead of them, towards the opening of the alley, and his previously somewhat soft expression hardened. Grantaire turned around to follow the blond’s line of sight out of curiosity, and he saw Éponine making a small circle in the air with her hand.

Beyond the brick walls that hid them, dawn broke over the horizon.

“What time is it?” Enjolras called out in a mere whisper.

“Six-oh-six,” Combeferre replied, just as softly, immediately stepping to his side.

Enjolras nodded once, and Grantaire watched as he transformed from someone who couldn’t remember it was winter into a complete force of nature. He straightened his posture, lifted his chin, and the movement caused everyone to pause what they were doing to look at him, although no words had been said yet.

“They’re coming,” he began, pushing through his fellow Mutant activists. “We planned for this, didn’t we? The council members will be entering the building at six-thirty sharp, and they don’t want our voices heard. What do we say to that?”

“Fuck that!” Bahorel boomed in response, causing a wave of nervous laughter.

Enjolras nodded, the corner of his lips pulling into a small smile, before he turned to Feuilly. “We need to make sure they don’t interfere for at least thirty minutes. Feuilly, can you handle that?”

“If Courf holds my hand, definitely,” Feuilly replied with a nod. Enjolras touched his shoulder with a soft smile before walking forwards.

“It would be my _honor_ ,” Courfeyrac grinned, moving past Grantaire to dramatically kneel, presenting his hand for Feuilly to take.

He just rolled his eyes. “You’re such a fucking ham, dude.” But he smiled and took the other man’s hand anyways.

The air in front of them shimmered before it cleared out again, and the group of protesters surged forward out of their hiding spot and into the street. Grantaire stayed in the back, still hovering around the brick walls of the buildings behind the rest. He was just an observer with this group, only there to watch them and carefully pick and choose what information he would deliver to the Suits, but this was too much. He had been a coward his whole life, always taking the easy route, no matter how treacherous it was, and he wasn’t going to start doing the right thing _now_ , just because a bunch of Mutants filled with hope called him a friend.

He wasn’t going to belittle everything he’d already sacrificed just because _maybe_ there was the chance that he had fallen in love with all of them.

Love and survival were oil and water.

A group of uniform-less people approached from the opposite street as the Les Amis emerged from their hiding spot in the alley -- Enjolras and Combeferre were front and center, both of their heads held high.

“We want this to be as peaceful as possible,” Combeferre announced, his voice louder than it usually was. He transformed just as much as Enjolras had -- normally he looked like your run of the mill tall, dark, and handsome nerd, but here he looked like the calm, stoic leader anyone would want to be behind. “All we ask for is thirty minutes.”

“You’re breaking curfew, Mutant,” one of the opposing people snarled. He tried to step closer, a cattle prod crackling in his hands, but Feuilly’s protective bubble stopped him from crossing the street.

“You don’t look like a police officer,” Enjolras shot back. “None of you do.”

“We’re just a few concerned citizens,” the man replied with a sharp smile.

“Just because you’re not wearing your patch doesn’t mean we don’t know who sent you,” Enjolras growled. He stepped closer, and Combeferre had to grab his arm to keep him to walking through their invisible line, and the heat in his eyes may have been actual, mutated heat, but Grantaire couldn’t tell from his position. Enjolras jerked his arm free from Combeferre’s grip and kept his eyes set on the opposing man. “We know who you are.”

Grantaire felt his heart flutter in his chest. Shit.

He thought of all the times he hadn’t been able to look away from a deadly serious Enjolras and chalked it up to nothing but aesthetic. He thought of the times where Enjolras would start one of his impromptu speeches from the other side of the room in the Musain, and Grantaire would stop whatever he was doing to listen, even if what was being said had nothing to do with him. He thought of going out of his way to engage Enjolras in conversation, and how he had stripped himself of a layer of warmth without even hesitating when he saw the blond needed it.

Physical attraction was something Grantaire could handle -- he was attracted to nearly every person he met in some kind of way. Watching Enjolras glower and yell and wave his hands fiercely at the man leading the opposition, and feeling the way it moved him, made Grantaire sure it was more than just aesthetic that captured his eye.

Enjolras was beautiful, but it was more than that. He was fierce, he was relentless, and he was fearless -- he was everything Grantaire lacked.

He leaned back against the wall, thumping his head on the brick, and groaned.

 _Shit_.

Leave it to him to somehow find a way to make an already complicated situation even _worse_ by developing feelings for someone he was technically working against.

“The Registration Act infringes on our right of privacy,” Enjolras argued. He’d be standing nose-to-nose with the other man if it weren’t for Feuilly’s protection. “If you don’t have to tell the government what your blood type is, why should we have to tell them what our DNA looks like?”

“Because you’re dangerous!” A woman stepped forward then, and Grantaire recognized her as one of the many Suits he’d dealt with over the past decade. “Your kind needs to be _controlled_.”

“How are we the dangerous ones?” Jehan suddenly appeared next to Enjolras, their pieces swarming together from different directions until they were a solid being. It was a rare sight, and Grantaire didn’t understand why -- their hair was half dreaded, half multi-colored curls, and freckles dotted their light brown skin. The people on the other side of Feuilly’s mutation didn’t appreciate it as much as R did, a handful of them flinching away. “You’re the ones with the weapons,” Jehan pointed out softly, their lips quirking into a little smile. “We’re on the offense.”

“We need the weapons to protect ourselves,” a third person countered. Grantaire quickly scanned the still gathering crowd -- they were outnumbered by at least five. “We don’t have mutations like you.”

“We already said we want to be _peaceful_ ,” Combeferre shot back. “This is just a simple demonstration to make sure our voices our heard on a subject that impacts our lives.”

“ _Our_ lives,” Enjolras emphasized. “Not yours. So why are you here if not to support us?”

“Because we’re tired of you _Mutants_ breaking the law,” the first man growled. He reared back his arm and struck his cattle prod against Feuilly’s force field, the air shimmering and flying with sparks as his attack was deflected.

“Then call the fucking cops, assholes!” Bahorel shouted, pointing at the group with his sign threateningly.

“You can’t do anything!” Musichetta joined in.

It did nothing to deter the man, who struck at the hardened air again, this time joined by a few others.

“Our voices will be head, and you’re just drawing more attention!” Courf yelled, and the hand that wasn’t firmly clasped in Feuilly’s shot forward and pointed to the slow, early morning streets.

He wasn’t wrong. From both directions, people who had been trying to start their early days caught sight of the protest and were slowly dwindling closer. Grantaire almost snorted -- leave it to curious people who couldn’t mind their own business to create an audience.

“Thanks for the help, you crusty bag of dicks!” Feuilly added with glee, earning a laugh and a high five from Bahorel.

The shouting really started then, anger rolling off of both sides in waves. Even Marius, someone who normally seemed rather separated from whatever discussion at hand, had taken a step closer with Cosette to the street, his own sign waving in the air. Among French, English, German, and other languages spilled from his mouth.

Grantaire just hid in the shadows and hoped one of the Suits -- there were four that he recognized, which led him to believe the entire group of aggressors were made of them -- didn’t see him.

Had Fantine told them about the protest? It wouldn’t have made sense if she did considering Cosette was always meant to be a part of it, but Grantaire didn’t see any other explanation. Only the core group of _Les Amis_ were involved in the planning of this, so it couldn’t have been anyone but him that was the leak. His legs twitched nervously as more cattle prods zapped at Feuilly’s bubble.

Something seemed off.

His eyebrows were furrowed as he carefully watched the scene and tried to figure out just what it was. It could have been that he’d never seen one of their rallies before -- he wasn’t ruling that out. He had seen them all burn with intensity at separate times, but never together. Together they were a force, and even Grantaire -- someone who was so opposed to their cause because he thought it was a hopeless endeavor -- felt something other than selfishness stir in his chest. It was _hope_.

And then, as he probably should have expected, he was punched in the face. Literally.

“ _Fuck_ ,” he cursed, his body twisting in the direction the fist sent his head. His hand went to his throbbing nose, blood already pooling down from his nostrils. “What the _hell_ , man?!” he exclaimed, jumping back to face his attacker. “Who the--”

It was a man he didn’t recognize, hunched over and smiling up at R from his place on the ground. His wild, fried looking hair was the color of dirty snow, and his shit-eating grin was missing more than a couple of teeth. Before R could retaliate, or figure out _why_ _the hell_ he had been punched, his assailant was jumping over the dead end of the alley -- an inhuman feat.

Okay then.

His eyes looked down to wear the older man had been crouching, and his heart stopped in his chest. He wasn’t an expert, his knowledge for everything came from cheesey television shows and outdated crime novels, but he was pretty fucking sure he knew what was lying on the ground.

“Bo-- Shit-- _Guys_ ,” he panicked, his words muffled by the hand still pinching his bleeding nose. No one turned, his voice lost in their own shouts. He stumbled back, blindly grabbing for Bossuet. “Dude.”

Bossuet turned, his face creasing with worry. “R, what--” His eyes flicked momentarily behind Grantaire, and they widened with the same panic R felt. “ _Bomb!_ ” he shouted, his voice working infinitely better than Grantaire’s, gaining the majority of everyone’s attention. “There’s a _bomb!_ ”

Immediately, four people flocked it. Of course they did. That was the opposite of what you were supposed to do when you had a bomb in your presence, so _of fucking course_ they did.

“Fifteen seconds,” Combeferre called.

“Shit, Boss, can you fly it up to the building?” Courfeyrac asked.

“And get himself killed? No _fucking_ way, Courf!” Chetta countered.

Courfeyrac accepted this, and twisted around to look at Feuilly. “Can you--”

“Not without getting us electrocuted instead of blown up,” Feuilly grunted. There were beads of sweat collecting on his face. “Either way we die.”

“Look, flying it out the way really seems--” Bossuet started, already a few more inches than normal off the ground.

“If you don’t die, someone else will,” Chetta replied forcefully. “We’re in the middle of the city--”

“Six seconds,” Combeferre pressed.

“--There’s nowhere to _safely_ detonate a damn _bomb_.”

“We’re _all_ going to die if--”

“So that makes it okay if _you_ die? God _dammit_ , Laigle--”

“Four seconds.”

“ _Move._ ”

Bahorel burst through the fretting protesters before anyone could stop him in an honest-to-God somersault, scooping the bomb in his arms as he rolled by. In less than a blink of an eye, the air around him opened and swallowed him, sealing closed after he and the bomb disappeared.

The group stared in stunned silence.

“No.” Feuilly was the first to break it, his voice quieter than Grantaire had ever heard it. His face crumpled, and he yanked his hand from Courfeyrac’s to rush to the spot Bahorel’s portal had been.

“Feuilly--!” Courf protested, but it was too late.

The force field that had been protecting them collapsed, and all hell broke loose. Again.

Without anything restraining them, the anti-Mutant group surged forward, their cattle prods sparking in their hands. It made sense that their weapon of choice was typically used for animals, because as the group of Mutants stepped back, that’s all Grantaire felt they were.

Jehan separated themself, effectively dodging the first attack, but the sparking volts of electricity caught Courfeyrac’s arm. He yelped and stumbled back away from the aggressive man with the weapon, before Jehan formed enough of themself to pull him to safety.

A woman reared back the cattle prod to strike Enjolras, but he caught it midair, staring her down as fire formed in his eyes.

Marius was struck by a shock stick in the small of his back almost instantly, and he fell down with an anguished cry. Cosette, still clinging to his hand, looked up at the attacker fiercely.

“Walk away,” she commanded, and despite never using her voice, it rang clear and over the sounds of chaos. Everyone, the Les Amis protesters included, froze. “Put your weapon down, and _never_ pick it up again.”

Grantaire watched in awe as the man slowly sat the sparking rod down and stepped away, including three more attackers. Even Joly, innocent as he was, tried to sit down his harmless cane before he shook himself out of it.

The siren-esque stillness didn’t last long.

“We have to retreat,” Combeferre yelled, waving his arm for the others to follow just as the anti-Mutants were shaking themselves out of the charm that hadn’t been meant for them.

Enjolras didn’t move like the others, still pushing against the woman trying to electrocute him, his teeth clenched and bared in the struggle. Combeferre took note of this and stopped his backwards jog.

“ _Enjolras_ ,” he snapped, finally gaining the attention of the blond. “We have to go.”

Enjolras hesitated for just a moment, his eyes flicking from Combeferre to the woman, before he blew a quick wall of fire in his attacker’s face. She fell back with a small cry, and even Enjolras began to run with the others.

Grantaire went to follow, but Feuilly was still on the ground, staring hopelessly at the empty air that Bahorel had vanished through. He shot a look over his shoulder -- two more anti-Mutant counter protesters were coming towards them -- and let out a groan of frustration.

“C’mon, man,” he grunted, crouching to lift a clearly traumatized Feuilly.

“No,” he protested stubbornly, but it was weak. Grantaire was able to drag him along, slipping through the early morning streets.

>>>*<<<

The Musain was wrapped in a thick, solemn silence once they all got back.

They took a quick headcount to make sure everyone had arrived safely, and the missing Bahorel didn’t go as unnoticed as it went unspoken. Feuilly had gone to sit alone once Grantaire got him inside, his face carefully blank, but Jehan had swarmed next to him. They sat in silence.

Enjolras had stood at the front of the room as he usually did, and he was the only one who didn’t look to be stricken with grief. He just looked angry.

“From now on, we fight for Bahorel,” he announced, before he and Combeferre walked away together.

Joly tended to Courfeyrac’s and Marius’ burns in silence.

Éponine had bowed out as soon as she let everyone know she was fine, and Grantaire couldn’t blame her. He had half a mind to do it himself, but he stupidly couldn’t bring himself to leave, even with every shredded piece of logic told him he should. Fantine would be waiting for him there, and he didn’t think he could handle seeing her any time in the near future. Or ever.

Courfeyrac came over to him after a few long minutes, handing him a wet rag and he gestured at his face.

“You have blood all over you, _chiquito_ ,” he said quietly, as if trying not to disturb the atmosphere.

“Thanks,” Grantaire mumbled, gratefully taking the rag. He had forgotten about his nose in all the commotion, and it throbbed again now that he remembered. He rubbed his face with it, most of the dried blood transferring to the rag, but some fell in flakes into his lap. He didn’t care.

“Did you see who did it?” Courf asked, his thin fingers drumming on the table. “The person who punched you.”

“I didn’t get that good of a look at him. Just some crazy guy with missing teeth,” Grantaire sighed wearily.

“Yeah, I didn’t think so,” Courf replied, tapping his fingers on the table a few more times before turning on a too-cheerful smile. “At least all you got was a bloody nose.”

He opened his mouth to respond, but muffled voices shouted from the fourth floor made him pause, followed by a loud _bang_ that made everyone -- Grantaire included -- jump. Combeferre stormed down the stairs just a few seconds after. He was shaking his head furiously and muttering under his breath, which surprised R -- he was usually so well composed -- but he _had_ been talking to Enjolras. Courfeyrac immediately rushed after him.

“He’s a fool,” Grantaire heard Combeferre say.

He was inclined to agree.

He himself sat alone in silence, and he tried his hardest not to pay attention to the others. He had no right to be amongst their mourning, even if he had considered Bahorel a friend. He couldn’t even bring himself to be angry at Fantine for betraying him -- this was his own fault. He had been the one to trust her with no hard evidence.

Bahorel’s blood was on his hands, whether he physically put the bomb there or not.

Eventually he had wandered his way downstairs to the main hall of the Musain, breaking away from people who looked to him as a friend, and he helped himself to their shitty stash of wine. He couldn’t go home and get drunk, but he could always get drunk here.

When he passed the third floor, he saw that Enjolras had returned from having whatever argument he had with Combeferre, so Grantaire slipped to the fourth floor to drink in peace.

There were no lights on, just a candle lit in the middle of one of the tables, but it was all the same to him. He sat, placing his forehead on the cool, smooth wood, and ended up falling asleep.

The buzzing of his phone woke him up.

Blearily, Grantaire stared at his phone, the too bright LED screen illuminating his fingers in the dark room. The number was unrecognizable, but the message was clear.

_2000 sharp._

There was no address, no other defining factors other than the time, which meant Grantaire wouldn’t be able to run because they’d find him anyways. They had already seen him at the protest, so it would be no surprise if they knew he was holed up in the Musain. He turned off his phone and jammed it back into his pocket before reaching for his drink, the red wine bitter and warm on his lips.

“It’s hardly even noon,” came a voice, bringing Grantaire away from staring into the crack in the wall before him. Enjolras was sitting at the table watching him, and the wine made him look as though he were emitting his own soft light. The amount of time he had been there was unknown, but Grantaire wasn’t fooled by his carefully blank expression -- it was disdain.

“I know,” Grantaire snorted, shifting and angling his body away from Enjolras. He didn’t want to look at him then. “I didn’t know you were here. I can leave if you want.”

“No, you’re fine,” Enjolras assured, the rustling of papers implying he was in the middle of something. But his words didn’t stop there. “You’re not a disturbance.”

 _You’re not being annoying today,_ Grantaire knew he meant.

“How I live to please thee, Apollo,” he mumbled, his words muffled by the lips of his wine bottle.

Silence enveloped the room after that, and Grantaire started to twitch. His legs bounced, his knees banging into the table with every movement, and the darkness that he had sought solace in now made him feel claustrophobic. In his wildest dreams, he would kill for a chance to be alone with Enjolras like this -- had they ever been before? -- and he knew he would have been able to fill up the silence with his meaningless words, but even those empty vessels failed him then.

He had fallen in love. Not with Enjolras -- rather, not _only_ with Enjolras -- but with all of the Les Amis. Grantaire believed them to be naive and running on the fuels of hope, but he loved them fervently. He loved them without abandon, and yet he still met with the Suits.

He still killed Bahorel.

“Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?” Enjolras’ voice caught him off guard, shattering just the beginning of his musings. “You don’t have to answer,” he continued quickly when Grantaire made no signs of hearing him. “I really shouldn’t be asking at all, since it’s none of my business, but I have to admit that I’m…”

His pause made Grantaire look at him, his desire to see Enjolras hesitant overriding not wanting to look at him at all, and the move filled him with regret because Enjolras was chewing on his bottom lip. _God_ , he was beautiful.

The blond shook his head after another beat, his eyes falling back to his papers. “No, never mind. I shouldn’t have asked at all.”

“Ask it,” Grantaire prompted, though he knew he shouldn’t. It was hard to look away from the other man now; the glowing reflection of the single candle on the table upon his skin was too much to dismiss. “I’ll decide if I want to answer it or not.”

“What…” Enjolras hesitated again, and it seemed to be a tick of his to press his full bottom lip between his upper teeth. It was going to kill Grantaire. Steel blue eyes darted back to him after a moment. “What is your gift, Grantaire?”

Of course. No one had asked him outright yet -- it was impolite, even if you were among those supposedly equal to you -- but he knew it should have come eventually. He drew a breath, but no words came to him, so he drank from his bottle again.

“I’m sorry,” Enjolras whispered, taking the silence as enough of an answer. “That was completely out of line and I should know better, I--”

“No, it’s not that,” Grantaire interrupted, slumping lazily against the table. “You just asked the wrong question.” He gave a sloppy half grin at the perplexed expression he got in return. “Asking for my _curse_ would be the more accurate way about it. Or you could just throw caution in the wind and call it what it is -- I’m not offended by the word mutation like the rest of you.”

“Both of those terms are degrading,” Enjolras shook his head. “I don’t think anyone deserves--”

“I hurt people,” Grantaire cut him off again, but his words were softer than before. He didn’t know if it was because he had just woken up, or if he was truly weak to his feelings for Enjolras, but he didn’t think he had it in him to avoid the subject entirely when it was presented so straightforward as it was then. “My curse is that I hurt people.”

Enjolras blinked like it was the only way to process the information. Grantaire just widened his smile in spite of himself.

“When I touch people, I hurt them.”

Okay, so Enjolras was the last person on the List of People to Tell, but so what? It wasn’t like he had anything to lose. Once Grantaire started unloading half the weights on his shoulders, he couldn’t stop -- every word was bringing him closer to the surface, closer to the relief of his lungs filling with air instead of water. Not all the way, of course. But it was a start.

“It’s all very scientific and I’m sure Combeferre would be much better at explaining it than I, but I know it’s painful,” Grantaire continued. “There’s no purpose to it. It doesn’t benefit anyone.”

 _Except for the people who hate you_.

“That’s why you wear gloves,” Enjolras breathed.

“Correctamundo, Enjolras,” Grantaire deadpanned, wiggling his gloved fingers in the air before grabbing onto his bottle again. He started to lean on it like it anchored him there. “I don’t want to offend anyone by the way of an accidental high five. Have you ever noticed how common those are with you all? Seriously. You slap each other’s hands around, like, all the time, and I can’t say that I understand it any more than I understand baseball. What purpose does it serve you? Not baseball, of course, but I’m not opposed to debating the merits on that dull game either. You catch the ball, you throw the ball, you chase the ball -- any dog can--”

“Enough,” Enjolras interjected this time, but his voice was all wrong. He wasn’t annoyed, or sharp, or anything that resembled the ferocity Grantaire was so accustomed to. His eyes were soft, his lips tugged into a frown that didn’t look like it had even a hint of disappointment, and his words were gentle. Surely this was just a hallucination. “Grantaire, you should have told me sooner.”

“About my hate for baseball or high fives?”

“About your _power_ ,” Enjolras huffed, but he still wasn’t at the level of agitation Grantaire knew well. “This whole time I thought… Well. I thought you were antagonistic because you truly believed the cause was a lost one--”

“I do truly believe that. That is absolutely correct.”

“--But you just feel out of place, even here in--”

“A cause that’s dead on arrival,” Grantaire continued, his voice rising above and overlapping Enjolras’. He didn’t want to hear this. _God_ , he wanted to hear it all, but he _didn’t_ want to hear any of it.

“--A place where I promised you would be safe, but you’re still alone, aren’t you?” Enjolras was undeterred, his black keyed voice easily carrying over Grantaire’s baritone. “You can’t join them because you don’t feel like you’re a part of them.”

“I take that back, actually, it’s a cause that was dead on conception.”

“I understand.”

Grantaire balked. His next words caught in his throat for a moment before they bubbled out of him in harsh laughter. He leaned back in his chair and shook his head incredulously. “Jesus, don’t say that. You don’t.”

“I _do_ ,” Enjolras insisted, and the edge was finally back in his voice. There. At least _something_ was familiar about this situation.

“I know you’re a strong believer in solidarity, but I think this is going a little too far, Enjolras,” Grantaire snapped. “Not understanding something is the way of life; you don’t need to pretend like you do, especially not around me.”

“I don’t claim I understand everything, and if you would just _listen_ to me, maybe _you_ can understand,” the blond bristled, his knuckles going white as he grasped the edges of the table.

They stared at each other in stony silence for a long while. Despite wanting to walk away, and getting very close to doing just that, Grantaire wanted to soak in the candle lit skin a little longer so he could sketch it properly later. The amount of pride he sacrificed for the sake of beauty was beyond calculation.

But Enjolras blew out the candle.

Just as R was about to wax poetic on what a metaphor of his life that was -- to find something he could only roam with his eyes just to have it taken from him anyways -- he realized he didn’t have to. Because Enjolras was still glowing, perfectly visible against the stark black of the room.

There was no light reflecting from him, no flame flickering across his face in a series of ghostly shadows, there was just Enjolras acting as light itself. A calm that rivaled Musichetta’s handiwork settled in Grantaire’s chest at the sight. There was nothing more right than this. For once the universe had aligned perfectly and created something that held no irony nor fault, but instead purpose. Enjolras himself was light, and light itself was Enjolras. It simply made sense.

“You are fucking breathtaking,” he blurted before he could stop himself. He leaned forward, raking his eyes along the illuminating flesh studiously. “How are you doing that?” he asked carefully, the roughness from their argument all but a memory in his voice. “Is there a way you just... kindle ash under your skin?”

“I don’t control fire, R,” Enjolras replied softly, shifting and ducking his head in a clearly uncomfortable way that made the other man back away obediently without being asked.

"I've seen you do it," Grantaire countered, meeting the blond’s eyes again. "Nearly took my eyebrows right off the first time we met, in case you forgot. Probably an improvement for my face, I'll give you that, but not something I would like to have seen through."

"I don't control fire," Enjolras repeated stubbornly. R could see his frustration growing, and his nerves only made him want to talk more nonsense to fill their short bursts of silence. "I can't manipulate a flame outside of my body because that's not my mutation." There was another pause. An intake of breath. “Combeferre calls it Heliokinesis.”

“ _Helio_ ,” Grantaire repeated flatly, blinking a few times. “Like… As in the sun?”

“My mutation is a direct link to the sun, yes,” Enjolras nodded. He pressed his lips together and his eyes dropped to his hands on the table. “I was born at three in the morning, and the sun rose. There was… a solar storm, too, I think--”

“Holy shit, I learned about that in school,” Grantaire breathed, his eyes widening. “That was _you_?”

“Yes.”

“Holy _shit_ ,” Grantaire repeated lamely. “Holy shit, you’re-- You’re _literally_ Apollo, I--”

“Grantaire, please,” Enjolras interjected.

“No, no, hold on, I need a moment. Do you have any idea how many times I’ve thought that in my head? I mean-- Wow. Really explains the anger when I call you Apollo--”

“I get _annoyed_ because it’s a silly comparison,” Enjolras argued.

“Is it, though? You control the fucking _sun_!” Grantaire insisted, a small laugh escaping him.

“Apollo was a selfish, immature god who couldn’t take no as an answer and resulted in Daphne turning herself into a tree just to get _away_ from him and--” Enjolras’ chest heaved, but he sucked in a deep breath to cut himself off, closing his eyes to combat his annoyance.

Grantaire was amazed. He didn’t know how or why it was so easy for him to work Enjolras up like he always seemed to, but part of him was thankful for it. It was that energy that fueled his attraction to the blond in the first place -- it was what made his heart leap in his chest. Granted, he liked it more when it wasn’t aimed directly at _him_ , but he’d become somewhat of a masochist as of late.

“What I’m trying to say is that my mutation hurts people, too,” Enjolras concluded with a sigh. His eyes opened again, and he seemed calmer.

“What happened to _gift?_ ” Grantaire asked. For once, there was no malice or teasing in his question.

“I don’t use it regarding myself for the same reason you don’t,” Enjolras replied factually.

“Making the sun rise at three in the morning isn’t so bad,” Grantaire offered halfheartedly. “And solar flares happen all the time.”

“I appreciate the sentiment, but unfortunately that’s not how things are. I have a decent grasp on controlling myself now, but it hasn’t always been that way. Even now I-- Well. You saw how I lost control on the first day you met me, and I’ve lost it a few more times since.” His voice was quiet, which was unsettling. Grantaire had never seen Enjolras struggle to keep eye contact with anyone before, even while his eyes were literal flames in his skull, and he couldn’t help but feel a little guilty at being the catalyst for some of the blond’s shame. “Combeferre’s body is eighty percent scar tissue.”

“What?” Grantaire blinked, his mind working too slowly to piece together what Enjolras was saying.

“He-- We were trying to see the extent of what I could do a few years ago,” Enjolras replied slowly. A glowing finger traced a small circle on one of his papers, and Grantaire’s eyes flicked from watching it wrinkle and distort underneath the heated digit and the blond’s face. “He wanted to compare the radiation at my natural state versus my heightened state, and see what temperature I reached at full blast.” His fingers pulled at the simple beige sweater he always wore, even in the summer, and he smiled softly. “He developed this with Jehan -- so I wouldn’t lose my clothes in case I ever… went up.”

“He got too close,” Grantaire filled in.

“Yeah,” Enjolras nodded, his eyes darting to meet R’s. “I had never let myself unleash like that, and I couldn’t-- I had trouble reigning everything back in. So he tried to help, but I just ended up hurting him and--” He released a shaking breath before he shook his head, and Grantaire watched the newfound vulnerability slowly harden. “It wasn’t the last time, either. And he’s not the only person.”

They allowed silence to befall them, and for once Grantaire didn’t want to talk about endless nothing to fill the gap. Instead he pushed his bottle away and folded his arms on the table, lightly resting his chin on them as they locked eyes.

From the information he had, Enjolras believed they were on the same level as each other, and Grantaire didn’t have the heart or courage to tell him anything different. He didn’t know how to explain that his mutation wasn’t the only thing keeping him on the other side of the fence as the others, especially since that reason had been the cause of Bahorel’s death. Despite that, Grantaire was selfish. Enjolras, someone who had openly disliked him from the beginning, was opening up to him in order to make him feel like he had a place in his revolution. His revolution that _he_ didn’t even feel a part of, since he always preached about Mutant’s not being as dangerous as the public believed.

He was trying.

He was trying under false pretenses, but Grantaire was still moved, and Grantaire still wished he could touch him.

He wanted to kill it before it continued to fester.

“I don’t know how you hurt people, Grantaire,” Enjolras began again. “I don’t ever have to know, but I want you to understand that you still have a place in this. That everyone--”

“I take away mutations,” Grantaire blurted before he could stop himself, raising his head off the table. Enjolras’ eyes widened. “I rewrite Mutant DNA completely. I make them normal. I don’t even take their powers for myself, I just… obliterate them.”

Enjolras only blinked in response.

“I don’t have a place in this, Enjolras,” he whispered.

Before Enjolras could recoil in disgust -- thankfully -- the door to their dark room burst open without warning, flooding them both with light. Courfeyrac stood in the threshold, his chest heaving and his eyes wild.

“You need to be out here,” he insisted breathlessly.

Enjolras and Grantaire both stood and quickly left the room, putting their conversation on the backburner.

Bahorel stood in the middle of the room of the third floor.

“Why the hell is everyone looking at me like that?” he demanded when his bewildered eyes fell on Grantaire.

“Dude,” Grantaire deadpanned, his own eyes wide with shock he was sure that mirrored everyone else’s.

Feuilly was standing at his spot in the corner, and he was the only one who didn’t look like he was staring at a ghost. His eyebrows were knit closely and his lips were pressed in a thin line, his expression decidedly blank. But his hands were in tight fists, his knuckles turning white.

Combeferre was the first to finally speak up.

“Bahorel,” he began carefully, taking a step closer to the larger man. “When is the last time you saw us?”

Bahorel blinked before realization dawned on his face. “Shit, did I fuck up the time again?”

“That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” Ferre replied gently.

“Uh, the protest?” Bahorel answered, though he sounded unsure of himself. He looked around the room in confusion. “Seriously, what the hell is going on?”

“ _Which_ protest, you absolute _oaf?_ ” Feuilly exploded. “Christ-- would it kill you to be specific for once in your _life?_ ”

“The one at City Hall? Fucking hell, I got rid of a god damn bomb for you motherfuckers and this is how I’m welcomed back? The _least_ you could do is--”

Relief flooded through the room at his answer, everyone’s shoulders visibly relaxing. Except Feuilly, who had promptly marched across the room, twisted his hands in Bahorel’s shirt, and yanked him down so he could smash their lips together.

“...Say thank you,” Bahorel finished lamely when Feuilly pulled away.

Grantaire blinked. He was pretty sure they hadn’t been dating.

“I thought you were _dead_ , you _asshole_ ,” Feuilly hissed, punching Bahorel hard in the chest. “I thought you were _dead_ and I--”

He broke off, and his voice caught in his throat as tears spilled from his eyes.

Bahorel’s confusion softened considerably, and he shook his head, enveloping Feuilly’s hands in his much larger one. “No, man, I-- Shit. I mean, I cut it really fucking close, but no.”

“What happened?” Joly asked, taking a tentative step closer. His eyes scanned Bahorel for damage, but Grantaire didn’t see anything significant.

“The portal bought me some time,” Bahorel replied, his eyes not moving from Feuilly’s. “Maybe, like, a solid five extra seconds to figure out what to do. I threw it in the bunker.”

“You _what?_ ” Enjolras demanded, still standing next to Grantaire on the stairs.

“Relax, Chief, the bunker’s fine,” Bahorel assured, darting his attention to Enjolras. “It went off in the hallway. I’m sure that place was built to withstand a lot more than a tiny ass bomb.”

“...So I guess that solves the mystery of why half the hallway suddenly disappeared a few months ago?” Jehan spoke up, and a small, teasing smile could be seen through their swarming.

“Time travel is so weird,” Bossuet grinned.

“What happened after I saved the day?” Bahorel asked. “Did the protest work?”

“No,” Combeferre replied, his eyes darting to Enjolras. “We had to leave right after you did.”

“Well that fucking blows. What’re we going to do now?”

“How about we worry about that later?” Feuilly interjected sternly.

The two exchanged a silent conversation before Bahorel looked back up, grinning at his room of friends.

“So, now that you’re all aware that you can stop planning my funeral, do you mind if I bounce?” he asked, holding up the hands that were still firmly grasping Feuilly’s.

“You just got _back_ ,” Courfeyrac protested.

“We’re _leaving_ ,” Feuilly insisted, pushing against Bahorel and shooting a glare towards seemingly everyone in the whole room, as if daring anyone else to object.

“Thank you,” Enjolras blurted suddenly, just as the two were backing away from the group. Bahorel eyed him curiously, so Enjolras nodded and repeated himself. “Thank you for what you did. I’m… Very happy you’re alive, Bahorel.”

“I’m built like your bunker, dude. Gonna take a lot more than a bomb,” Bahorel winked in the blond’s direction before he and Feuilly disappeared down the stairs.

The group was quiet after they left, though it wasn’t the heavy silence that had blanketed over them before. Joly sank into a chair and released a sigh that flooded the entire room with relief, it seemed. Jehan let themself buzz around happily instead of forcing themself to be at least somewhat whole, and Courfeyrac wrapped his arms around their shoulders -- Grantaire never knew how he always managed that, but it wasn’t his business. Bossuet and Musichetta, no longer weighed down from the spat at the protest, reunited in an intimate hug. Cosette smiled fondly at Marius as she rubbed his upper back, careful to avoid his fresh burns. Combeferre rubbed his neck, shot an uncharacteristically cold look at Enjolras, and turned away.

“We should regroup for a while,” he suggested, but his tone didn’t leave room for objection.

“They’re going to expect us to take time and lick our wounds,” Enjolras argued, not surprisingly. His eyes were just as cold as Ferre’s had been when they looked upon him. “It’ll be better if we--”

“For once, Enjolras,” Combeferre began wearily, pausing in the threshold of the exit. He still didn’t turn around. “Maybe it won’t be so bad for us to do the expected thing.”

He left then, and despite the two friends fighting now, the atmosphere in the room was slowly shifting back to normal.

Except now the biggest problem in the room had to do with his conversation with Enjolras.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras began, as if he had read his mind on exactly what he _didn’t_ want to start. “I think we should--”

“No thanks,” R interrupted, taking a fumbled step down. “The mood’s dead, so we should just let the conversation die with it.”

Enjolras furrowed his eyebrows. “I think it’s important.”

“Maybe it is, but I shouldn’t have told you. It was a mistake, so I’d appreciate it if you just dropped it, Apollo.” Grantaire took the rest of the steps down quickly, burying his hands into the pocket of his jumper.

“Grantaire--”

“ _Drop it_ ,” he snapped, whirling around with exasperated bewilderment.

Enjolras stood only two steps above him, efficiently towering over him more than what was normal, and an outstretched hand pushed the hoodie from earlier into R’s face. Surprise kept him from grabbing hold of it immediately, but his brain caught up to his hands soon enough.

“I was just telling you to take your jacket,” Enjolras said darkly, his eyes sparking with the familiar annoyance.

“Right. Yeah.” Grantaire took a few more steps back, just slinging the ratty old jacket over his shoulders. “I’ll get out of your hair now.”

Enjolras watched him leave from down his slender nose, his jaw set, and disdain clear in his eyes.

Yeah, Grantaire really didn’t need to hear what he had to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I probably won’t update this quickly ever again, but I’ll be pretty busy for a while with various things, so I thought I’d go ahead & get it out of the way now. Say hi to me on [tumblr](http://enjolrasrouge.tumblr.com)!
> 
> The muffled voices in the Musain after the protest were Enjolras and Combeferre getting into an argument, and the bang was Enjolras throwing something (because lbr, he’s a child). What they fought about will be talked about in the next chapter, but I'm sure you can draw your own (correct) conclusions.
> 
> Grantaire started talking about baseball along with high fives because that’s where they originated, so there’s at least some consistency to his babbling.
> 
> HUGE HUGE thank you to my girlfriend [feuillamy](http://archiveofourown.org/users/feuillamy/pseuds/feuillamy) for talking this out with me for months and months. Lots of Grantaire’s thought process you see are all her, and I take 0 credit for anything other than the execution.


End file.
